


Love is a Broken Balloon in the Park

by lily rose (annabeth)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Barebacking, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Facials, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Prostitution, Public Sex, Sibling Incest, Smoking, Unsafe Sex, Voyeurism, jizzed in his pants fic, omg so much porn, references crossdressing, references imagined father/son incest, risky sex, so much jizzing in Sam's pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 10:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11125260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose
Summary: Watching Dean get fucked is a full-time obsession for Sam.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadesofhades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/gifts).



> Acknowledgements to shades_of_hades for a couple of lines and also for cheerleading as I wrote. Also, this is basically a manwhore!Dean story, but for those of you who feel like it's breaking up the OTP, let me assure you that the entire story is a journey to Sam/Dean, so please give it a shot anyway? Sam POV. The boys investigate a case, which is based on a true story; Charlesgate is a real place, and the rumours of the hauntings are real also. However, the rest of it is fictional.
> 
> More notes: Sam dreams in this story, and they include things that didn't actually happen, but might squick some people: daddycest, cross-dressing.

Sam knows that Dean spreads his legs for pretty much anyone. Sam knows, too, just as well that Dean likes to spread girls' legs and go for broke, and he's come to terms long ago with the little spurt of jealousy he feels every time Dean scores. 

Which doesn't really explain why he's crouching on top of a filthy toilet seat, one shoe perched on either side of the seat, eyes glued to the little opening where the lock is, watching Dean. 

Dean, who is standing with his legs spread wide, his palms flat on the disgusting wall, his jeans around his ankles, with a guy who is a couple inches shorter than he is filling him out, shoving Dean up onto his tiptoes with every thrust. 

Sam can feel his cock swell a little bit more every time Dean groans, slams his hips back towards the stranger, but he doesn't reach down and touch himself, doesn't even look away for a second, just keeps his gaze plastered on Dean, at the way the muscles in his brother's ass flex as the guy pounds into him. 

Sam's cock twitches against the confines of his fly, and he bites his lip, breathes as quietly as he can through the sharp pulse of pleasure that floods his cock, feels the precome slipslide out of the slit and dampen his boxers. Outside the stall, Dean's body buckles towards the wall every time the stranger drives his cock deeper into him, and his brother moans and his fingers clench, his head dips down and sweat streams down his back, soaking through his thin t-shirt. 

Sam wishes he were in that guy's place, because he would bury his cock deep into the silky heat of his brother's body, and lick the sweat off his skin with the tip of his tongue. He would grind hard into Dean, pistoning his hips just like the stranger is doing now, tighten his fingers on Dean's hips and suck hard on the small of Dean's back, and as he watches his older brother taking it like a pro, he wishes he _could_ mark up that freckled golden skin, wishes Dean trusted him enough to let Sam be the one to take him so fiercely. 

Sam hates the way the jealousy bursts inside of him when the guy slides his hands up Dean's body, wraps his arms around Dean's middle and clings tightly as he gasps, head snapping back, and pours his jizz into Dean's body, hates the way that Dean sucks in a breath and jams his hips backward, hates it even more when the guy lets Dean go and pulls out, buttoning up his jeans and leaving his brother standing there, bare ass gleaming, splooge trickling out of him, chest heaving and when he turns a little, Sam can see his cock is still hard and dripping. 

And Sam waits for Dean to yank up his jeans, wash the grime off his hands, and leave the filthy, smelly restroom. As soon as Dean is gone, Sam climbs down off the toilet, unlocks the stall, and goes in search of the prick who was perfectly willing to fuck Dean without a condom, but not willing enough to actually _get him off_. Asshole. 

His cock rubs almost painfully against the fabric of his boxers as he walks, but he finds the guy and lifts him up off the floor with a fist in his collar, and he snarls right up into his face, watches the spit from his anger fleck the guy's skin, and then, just when the guy thinks it's all over, Sam drops him down, draws back, and slugs him hard in the jaw. 

When he catches up with Dean, his brother is walking a little bit funny, but Dean doesn't mention it and Sam doesn't ask; he already _knows_ why, and it's better for everyone involved if Dean doesn't realise that Sam has been watching him. 

"Did you fill up the Impala while I was in the bathroom?" Dean asks, waving at the pretty gas station attendant as they walk by. She grins and tilts her head, and Dean pauses long enough to smile back at her, before turning to Sam. And Sam knows that Dean's sexually frustrated, but he doesn't go back and try to pick her up, he just shakes his head a little. 

"Dean..." Sam says carefully. "We just filled the tank, remember?" And Dean's forehead wrinkles a little as he thinks back, and then his face clears when he remembers that they did, in fact just do that. Sam claps him on the back and watches Dean catch himself just before he stumbles, and that makes his head prickle, makes him even angrier, because it's apparent that the fucking he just took was rougher than it needed to be. 

"Did you pick up lunch?" he says, and Sam leans over his shoulder, points into the Impala. The little paper bag is settled in the middle of the bench seat, and Sam withdraws, trying not to think about how wonderfully warm and solid Dean feels, how good he smells, even with the odour of the restroom's disinfectant still clinging to him. 

Dean shrugs away, and walks around the car, unlocking his door and sliding into the front seat. He reaches into the bag and pulls out the sandwich, takes a huge bite and then shifts uneasily on the seat. Sam wonders if there's still spunk sliding back out of his body, if his boxers will be stained when he takes them off, and his cock, never quite all the way soft again, hardens again in his jeans. 

He's so torn, angry and jealous, but he can't deny the way he feels when he thinks about Dean getting fucked, can't pretend that it doesn't make him crazy with want, doesn't fill his cock with blood until it's pressed tightly against the seam of his jeans. 

Sam raises his leg slightly, settles his hand into his lap over the bulge in his pants, tries to look nonchalant. He knows Dean well enough to know that his brother would tease mercilessly if he caught him this turned on, and there would be no way to explain why. He never looks at the waitresses, never spends any time staring at _anyone_ really, except Dean -- and he's just lucky Dean's never noticed. 

Dean stuffs his face with the sandwich and the chips Sam bought; Sam holds his breath and tries not to cant his hips upward into the pressure and heat of his palm, still resting torturously on his cock. He wants to beat off, but that's so sixth grade, and he knows it. He's not still a horny teenager, he ought to be able to wait, he ought to be able to control the vulgar and impure impulses. He peeks at Dean out of the corner of his eye, just in time to watch Dean swallow -- Adam's apple moving under the skin of his throat -- and catch the crumbs on his gorgeous lips with the tip of his tongue. 

That doesn't help his situation any, and he's forced to grind the heel of his hand down into his crotch to try and ease some of the delicious ache. Dean wipes his fingers on his denim-clad thighs, licks some of the salt from the chips off his fingers, and then grips the steering wheel, craning his head around, and backing out of the parking space. 

Sam's cock, ever rebellious, spurts more precome into his boxers, and when Sam risks a glance down, there's the beginning of a damp patch at the front of his jeans. He can feel warmth streak up his neck and into his cheeks, and ducks his head down, toward the window, pressing his face against it, relieved by the coolness of the glass. 

Dean, luckily, is too busy driving to pay much attention to Sam, and Sam's pathetically thankful for that, so he closes his eyes and tries to imagine... well, _anything_ that might soften his recalcitrant cock. 

It's not lost on him that for most people, thinking about their sibling having sex might be enough to dampen their ardour, but that doesn't work for Sam; every time he pictures Dean with that sex-flush staining his skin, his body taut under some guy's hands, Sam just gets even harder. 

His cock is swollen, the skin feeling too tight and stretched over it, and all he wants to do is let his legs fall open and direct Dean's lips down into his lap; he wants to watch Dean tug down his zipper with his strong fingers, wants to watch those lips catch on the skin of his cock, and _fuck_ , but this isn't helping. 

So he thinks about his father naked, but that just morphs into an image of Dean, head arched back, shoulderblades tight and sharp under his skin, full of feline grace as he undulates his body, taking John's cock into his body like it's all he's ever wanted, and _dude_. He can't even think about his father fucking someone without turning it into a wet dream about Dean. 

Sam knows that their father would have never fucked one of his own children, but it doesn't quite erase the technicolour image of Dean on his hands and knees, anyway. 

Sam screws his eyes tightly closed and digs the blunt edges of his fingernails into his cock, trying for pain to diffuse the pleasure, but his nails just aren't long enough, and all it serves to do is make his cock tingle. 

But Dean starts to sing off-key to Led Zeppelin, and Sam actually begins to drift off, brain full of little movie reels of Dean getting fucked in a myriad of different ways. 

\--//--

When the Impala pulls into the parking lot and the growl of the engine dies away, Sam's eyes fly open and he realises that _oh fuck_ his boxers are sweaty and wet inside, and when he blinks the sleep out of his eyes and looks down, there's a cold darkened swatch of fabric surrounding the area of his crotch. 

His face burns and he realises that he's actually just had a _fucking wet dream_ while Dean was just inches away, and he has to hurry to rearrange his plaid flannel over shirt so that it covers the spot, or else Dean will never let him forget the humiliation of having a wet dream at age twenty-six. 

Dean slaps a palm down on Sam's thigh, chokes off a laugh when Sam startles and snaps his head up to look at Dean. 

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty," Dean says. "We're here." 

Sam twists away and wipes the fog of his breath off the window, blinks and rubs his eyes. "The Peachtree?" he asks, somewhat blinded by the giant furry looking peaches on either side of the hotel's sliding glass doors. 

"Well, it was that or something mainstream," Dean says defensively. "And you know as well as I do we have to stay off the radar." 

"Dean, we're _dead_ , remember?" 

"Right up until someone recognises us," Dean shoots back. "Dude. Go get your shit, I'll book us a room. And Sam? Make sure you take a shower. You reek of gas station bathrooms." 

"So do you," Sam says, in what has to be one of the lamest comebacks ever. 

Dean's eyes flick over to him and then away, and his brother yanks his duffel out of the trunk, tosses Sam the Impala's keys and heads off toward the giant peaches. 

Sam kind of wonders, idly, if those things are going to come to life and try to eat Dean when he gets close to them, but nothing happens, and he's just a tad disappointed. Well, not that he wants anything bad to happen to Dean, but at least it would have been entertaining. 

He gathers up his stuff and leans back against the Impala, waits for Dean to come back with the room keys. He pauses to sniff at himself, and comes away with the conclusion that he doesn't so much smell of restroom disinfectant as he does of the sour tang of spunk. 

He crosses his legs and the material of his boxers, stiff with the remnants of his orgasm, scratches against the skin of his soft cock, and he suddenly has a terrifying thought: what if he made some sort of noise? What if he did something embarrassing, and Dean _knows_ \-- what if Dean's aware that Sam came in his clothes just a hairsbreadth away from Dean? 

What if Dean knows _why_ , knows what Sam was dreaming of when he did it? 

Sam's skin prickles all over, and he's sweaty in a matter of seconds, his t-shirt dampening under the arms, and it's not even warm outside. 

Dean comes striding back out of the office, legs eating up the cement, and Sam feels himself swallow involuntarily as Dean gets closer, the sun striking his face and turning his freckles into glimmers on his cheeks. 

Dean waves the keys, grins easily at Sam. 

Sam tries not to let on to the way his throat is closing, or the way it makes his whole body fill with pinpricks of heat as he watches his brother come towards him. Tries not to let on just how much it arouses him to be even in the near vicinity of Dean, or how much he wishes he could just grab Dean and throw him against the car until Dean's pulse jumps in his throat and he raises wide green eyes to Sam's. He wants to taste those lips, feel Dean's heart throb in his throat underneath Sam's thumbs, wants to sweep his thumbs up over the apples of Dean's cheeks, tightening his hands until Dean can't move, until all Dean can do is open his mouth and accept Sam's kiss. 

Sam's own face is hot to the touch again, as he sidles past Dean and hunches down, trying to keep all of it inside and hidden. By the time he gets to the door of their room, he realises that Dean still has both keys, and he winds up standing there, entire body rigid, as Dean presses close to him and unlocks the door. Sam practically falls inside the room in his haste to escape the heat of Dean's skin, the scent of sex still coming off of Dean in waves. 

And he has the perfect excuse for taking a shower, because Dean already mocked him and suggested it, so he ducks into the bathroom and slams the door, throws the latch and begins to strip out of his soiled clothes. 

By the time he gets under the spray, his cock is standing at attention again, tight to his belly and he encircles it with his fist and begins to pump up and down, feeling the skin stretch and release, swipes his thumb over the crown, spreads the stickiness of his precome around it, and before he knows it he's got one hand braced on the shower wall and the other hand flying along his shaft, working himself closer and closer until... _finally_. 

It's a lot more satisfying to come when he's awake enough to enjoy it, and he feels his toes curl against the cool porcelain, feels pleasure shatter in every nerve in his cock, and he spurts and shudders, watches his come splatter against the far wall, feels his body quiver, hears himself bite down on a moan. 

When his heartbeat starts to slow, no longer pounding in his ears in tune with the water beating down, he can hear Dean in the other room, setting things up, probably salting the doors and windows and then... Well, Sam's not sure what Dean will be doing next, but he tries not to think about it, attempts to keep his brain on safe subjects like demons and other nasty supernatural monsters, and not on what Dean's cock might look like when it's hard and up against the soft skin of his abdomen and _fuck._

Sam's lucky, though, that he just blew his load and can't get it up against just yet, because otherwise he'd need yet another session with his hand, and he's not certain, but he thinks Dean might notice if he starts spending all of his time in the bathroom. 

He towels off and grimaces when he jabs at his jeans and boxers with his toe, because there's no way in hell he's putting those back on, but the alternative -- because of his lack of foresight -- is to leave the bathroom in a towel, which would probably be disastrous, because what if he takes one look at Dean and his body decides to recover? There's no fucking way to hide a boner in nothing but one of the motel's skimpy towels. 

Before he has a chance to really angst over it, Dean bangs on the door. "Dude, beauty queen, are you almost done powdering your nose in there? I feel like I have five hundred miles worth of road dirt caked into my skin." 

"Dean, you know, some people pay for mud to be rubbed into their skin," Sam retorts through the solidness of the door. He _almost_ feels safe with the wooden barrier between them. 

"Yeah, well I am not one of those pussies who cares about the quality of my skin," Dean says. 

_That's just because your skin is already perfect,_ Sam can't help thinking, but he opens the door a crack, and he can actually see some of the dust marring Dean's skin. And then he remembers his brother, accepting a brutal fucking in a filthy gas station restroom, and he's forced to agree with Dean that his brother could probably use a shower, too. 

He sidles past Dean and tries to keep his brother from noticing the flush on his skin that is unequivocally _not_ from the heat of the water. Dean doesn't really seem to be paying attention, though, he just enters the bathroom and shuts the door, and Sam's forced to remember, as he's pulling up one leg of his jeans -- and then the other -- that Dean never got off, either, which means he was in the same situation as Sam, and he throws himself onto his bed, facedown, and tries to smother himself with the bleach-scented blanket as he figures Dean is probably going to whack off in the shower, too. 

He doesn't need the sleep, but for some reason he dozes off anyway, and never has the chance to listen to Dean and see if he can catch the exact moment that his brother comes. 

\--//--

Watching Dean becomes a full-time obsession for Sam. He's not sure when the slow simmer of desire for his brother came to a full boil, but now it's impossible for him not to look at Dean every chance he gets, not to creep along after Dean like a ghost, watching and waiting for the next moment when he'll sneak off to get fucked, and _damn_ if Sam doesn't want to see it happen, like a flood of crazy in his veins. 

It's almost sickening the way that Dean doesn't even try to be discreet; the next time he shacks up, it's against the brick wall of the diner where they'd been eating ten minutes before. _I'll be right back,_ he'd said, and with a quick look over his shoulder, he'd pushed open the glass door and gone outside. 

Sam had waited just long enough, he figured, before following Dean. They've been hunting long enough now that Sam's just as adept at sneaking around as Dean is, and yet he still almost stumbles over his brother before pulling back into the shadows. 

Dean's on his hands and knees, and his lips are shiny like they've been soaked in lip gloss, and there's a stranger with his head pressed back against the bricks, fingers clawing at Dean's short hair, his cock jutting out of his business-suit pants as it disappears between those plush lips, and Sam can feel his chest stutter, his heart trip and slide into overdrive, and in his jeans his cock begins to harden, just a little bit at first. 

It's not quite the same, without Dean naked, but it still doesn't take long for Sam's cock to swell up against his leg, and he's soon shifting from foot to foot to try and ease the ache. 

Dean sucks cock pretty much about the way Sam would have expected, and there's something ridiculously overwhelming about watching Dean's throat flex as he deepthroats the man, and Sam wants to put his hand around his own cock and feel it thicken between his fingers; wants to take it out and press it to that mouth until Dean parts his lips and lets him in. He wants to see if he's bigger than that man, if Dean would be able to deepthroat _Sam_ , but he knows, painfully, that it's never going to happen like that. 

Dean speeds up, head bobbing back and forth, but then the guy's fingers clench and hold Dean still, and Dean subsides obediently, settles back, and then when the guy starts to thrust, Dean doesn't protest, he just takes it. 

And he continues to take it, even when the stranger in the business suit starts to lose the gentle rhythm and is fucking hard into Dean's mouth, and it looks like it's chafing Dean's lips, as they grow puffy and redness blooms on the surface. 

Sam feels his own lips swell a little in response, feels his cock stir against his jeans, and it takes all of his willpower not to reach down and touch himself, bring himself off while watching his brother give the type of blowjob usually reserved for the type of pornos Dean likes so much. For a fleeting moment Sam wonders if maybe that's where Dean picked up his technique, and that actually makes him jealous, makes him wish that he'd been the one to teach Dean to do that. Which is stupid, really, because he was probably around fourteen when Dean gave his first blowjob. Or younger. 

The thought doesn't actually bother him as much as it should. 

The guy's face screws up and grows ruddy, and then he jams his cock so far down Dean's throat that Sam cannot _fathom_ how Dean doesn't gag, but he doesn't; he just hangs on and his Adam's apple slips up and down as he swallows, and when he pulls off, there's a little bit of creamy liquid clinging to his lips. Sam wants to smear it all over his face with his fingertip, wants to see Dean with his face wreathed in Sam's come. 

The guy reaches into his pocket and yanks out a wad of bills, stuffs them between Dean's perfect lips, and zips up his pants. He pats Dean on the head condescendingly and turns away, walking down the street, and Sam watches Dean lower his head to hide his expression, but Sam knows his brother, and he knows that right this moment Dean is _furious_. 

Sam doesn't know why Dean keeps randomly fucking these people, but he _does_ know that Dean doesn't like to feel like he must now, like he's just another whore, like he's nothing particularly special. 

Dean gets to his feet, stretches a little, getting the kinks out of his knees and his back. Sam is forced to creep backwards, turn away, duck back into the diner and start stuffing himself with his breakfast so that Dean won't realise he'd been followed. 

His cock throbs with every bite, insistent and aching, and Sam can barely breathe through it. His food is a tasteless lump in his mouth as he chews, totally overshadowed by the feeling between his legs, and when Dean slides back into the booth, his mouth is flaming red and damp, looking like it's been scrubbed raw with water in the diner's restroom. 

Sam wonders, not for the first time, why Dean does it if he doesn't like it. And from the looks of things, Dean didn't care for that little interlude very much. 

"Hey, Sammy, you gonna finish your pancakes, or are you still eating like an anorexic fourteen-year-old?" Dean says, and jabs a finger towards Sam's plate. Sam won't look up, because if he meets Dean's eyes, he has no idea what Dean might see in the depths of his. 

"I'm not that hungry," Sam says, and it's the truth; the only thing he can think of that he wants in his mouth right at the moment is Dean's cock. 

Dean grins widely, the type of smile reserved for really hot chicks and frankly any type of food. He grabs his own discarded fork and dips it into Sam's pancakes, smushing them around in the syrup and then lifting towards his own mouth, opening wide and shoveling it in. 

It should be appalling, gross; instead, a little bit of syrup slips down Dean's lips and into the little hollow in his chin, and Sam catches himself leaning forward before he realises what the _fuck_ he's doing and pretends like he was reaching for the napkins in the middle of the table. 

Dean grabs one of the napkins too, and their hands brush, which makes Sam's skin tighten all over and his cock jerk in his jeans. 

It's an electric thrill that stays in his bloodstream all the way back to the motel room, where he commandeers the bathroom for as long as it takes to get himself off; which turns out to be an embarrassingly short session of yanking on his cock over the toilet until he blows his load, and afterward, weak from the force of his orgasm, Sam leans against the wall, enjoying the way the cool tile feels on his sweaty cheek, until Dean batters the door with his fist. 

"Sammy? I gotta take a leak, what the fuck are you doing in there? Dude, can't you jerk it when I'm not in the room, or do you get off on me knowing you can't keep it in your pants?" 

_Or that I'd like to keep it in the family,_ Sam thinks, depressing himself. It doesn't _ever_ help his situation that Dean loves to mock him so much about his sexuality, although he supposes that if Dean knew the extent to which his perversion runs, he would probably lean more towards violence than cruel humour. 

"I'm almost done," Sam calls out, and flushes the toilet. He's pretty sure, though, that Dean's going to know what he was doing, anyway. 

"Sam, you really need to just get over this whole prude-thing you've got going and just nail some chick. You'll feel better, I swear. Mmm, chicks are _so_ fucking sweet, Sammy, you have no idea what you're missing." 

"I'm not a virgin, Dean," Sam retorts, and unlocks the door. One look at Dean and he's yanked unwillingly back to the summer he turned fifteen, when he lost his virginity to a high school senior who had blond spiked hair and hazel eyes, that in just the right lighting looked green, and who had fucked him raw in the bushes behind the school one day after classes had gotten out. Sometimes he can even still feel the slight phantom pain when he moves, especially if he happens to be looking at Dean at the time. 

Dean smirks at him, and Sam fights back the urge to knock his fist into Dean's jaw to wipe the stupid smirk off his beautiful lips. And then the rest of what Dean said sinks into his consciousness and he very nearly blurts out the fact that Dean seems to like guys just as much as he likes girls, and he's lucky he manages to choke the words back down his throat, because Dean's _never_ picked up a guy when he thought Sam might be watching. 

He just doesn't know how many times Sam has snuck after his big brother and caught him just as he picks up some guy, and Sam doesn't really know what it all means, can't quite repress the jealousy he feels. Can't help the way he still wants to watch, though. 

Because even if Dean fucking other people makes him jumpy inside, like he's filled with grasshoppers, it's even worse that he might not get to see that golden freckled skin, or the way Dean's eyes crinkle up when he comes, although he only knows that from one particular experience. Sam's not sure if that's the only time Dean's come when with another man, or if Sam just couldn't see it from his vantage point; all he wants, though, is to see it again. 

He wonders, just for a second, what kind of a sick pervert that makes him, and whether it's worse that he wants to watch someone get off, or that he wants to watch his _brother_ get off. 

Dean pushes past him to get into the bathroom, and for once the feel of Dean's body on his doesn't send him into a tailspin of desire, although intellectually he can still feel the warm arousal in his brain if nothing else, and he's a little ashamed of how much it scares him. 

He's probably going to spend the rest of his life with Dean, after all. What will he do if he can't control this fucking deviant attraction forever? 

**Part Two**

Sam sleeps lightly for the next few nights, almost as if he's listening for Dean, expecting him to leave the motel room in the middle of the night, but Dean doesn't do anything except breathe with a little bit of a whistle, hardly even shifting in his bed. 

That actually bothers Sam more than if Dean _had_ gone out to get fucked. Not for the first time, Sam wonders why Dean does it, if he doesn't do it to get off, and it doesn't seem like he does, since the most recent debacle ended with Dean angry and out of sorts, even though he wouldn't explain to Sam just why. 

Whenever Sam _does_ manage to grab some true sleep, his dreams are filled with Dean in every imaginable way, from things overtly sexual to things that seem completely ridiculous. And then there's the dreams where Dean lies back on Sam's bed, arms crossed under his head, bare from his forehead down to the tips of his toes, his cock standing at attention, flushed scarlet and jutting out of completely smooth skin. 

The thing is, though, Sam's never seen Dean naked when he was aroused, at least, not from the front, so he has no idea whether the pictures his brain has conjured up make any sense, or at all mimic truth. No idea whether Dean would, in fact, shave his balls (although privately Sam wishes he would). 

Or the dreams where Dean is leaning over the nearest table, feather duster in hand, wearing a little apron and skirt that barely covers his ass; in fact, Sam can just see the shadow of his crack, and then Dean stretches forward, and Sam catches a glimpse of further bare ass, and lo and behold, but that's perfectly smooth too, just like a chick's. 

Then, when Sam wakes up the following morning, Dean's perched on the edge of his bed, sipping at a coffee cup, the cover discarded, watching Sam with a furrow in his brow. Sam starts to sit up, to swing his legs over the side of the bed, when he realises that at some point during the night he kicked off the cheap bedspread and is now lying exposed to the air, which is unfortunate, because his cock is stiff and stretching the soft worn cotton of his boxer briefs. And when he risks a better glance at himself, he discovers that there's a rather large darkened area, too. 

He can feel his face instantly suffuse with heat, and he drops his head forward to try and hide his face with his hair -- lucky thing, sometimes, that it's so long -- and hopes that Dean won't ask him what he was dreaming about, or even draw attention to Sam's discomfort at all. 

He should really, really have known better. 

"Pleasant dreams, Sammy?" Dean says, and there's a wicked sparkle in his eyes. He takes another long drink of his coffee, extends his legs until his knees pop, and then sets the coffee cup down on the night stand. He takes a second to suck his teeth, still watching Sam with something downright evil shining out of those green eyes. "It certainly looks that way from here." 

"Shut up, Dean," Sam mumbles, and he knows how pathetic that sounds. 

"Was she hot?" Dean asks, pausing to pick at his teeth with his fingernail. Sam deduces from the gesture that Dean must have eaten, likely some sort of junk food that most people would never touch for breakfast. It figures that for some reason Dean didn't bring anything back for Sam. 

And then Sam feels his cock jump in his boxer briefs, because it occurs to him -- what if Dean's been fucked already this morning? What if Sam missed it? What if Dean got off and Sam _missed it?_ Dean's eyes track downward again, and Sam's absolutely mortified, but Dean's forehead wrinkles and he chews on his lower lip for a long moment, before saying, 

"Hey, Sammy, did you nick some of my underwear again? Because, dude, I gotta say, that's nasty. Especially now; I don't really think I want those back." 

Sam figures his face must look like it could absolutely glow in the dark at this point, because it's _true_ \-- he grabbed whatever clean underwear were available. It just so happened to be a pair of Dean's favourite style, and the kind that Sam rarely ever wears -- for this reason especially, because they're too unforgiving and don't hide a damn thing. 

He feels like a teenager all over again, popping a boner when he least wants one, and even worse, going to sleep and waking up wet. Waking up wet in the same room as Dean, only now he doesn't have that excuse anymore of being fourteen years old. 

"'s plenty hot," Sam says quickly. 

"Well, at least that's something," Dean says, tilting his head a little. "Though, I gotta tell you, I hope it was worth ruining a pair of my underwear." 

"They're not--" 

"They're ruined to me," Dean interjects. "Hey, c'mon, Sammy, why don't you take care of that little problem, and then we can go out and get some breakfast." 

"I thought you ate," Sam says, searching for a sheet or something to cover himself with. 

"Well, I had some peanuts in the front seat of the Impala while I was driving to get coffee, but as for a real breakfast, nah, not yet." 

Sam tries not to think about 'Dean' and 'nuts' in the same sentence. 

Dean throws him a t-shirt and actually averts his gaze, _finally,_ although the damage has already been done, and Sam knows it. As Sam pulls the t-shirt over his head, he wonders if even _Dean_ would be tacky enough to fuck someone in a coffee shop. 

Then again, Dean's willing to fuck someone at a gas station, in the slummy bathrooms, so Sam figures Dean would probably fuck someone by the side of the road if he thought he could get away with it. Particularly if he thought Sam wouldn't ever know about it. 

Sam rummages around on the floor with his bare toe, looking for the jeans he must have taken off late last night, because he'd been wearing them when he went to bed, and he quite obviously is not wearing them now. 

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says suddenly, pausing in whatever he's currently doing -- which turns out to be leafing through _Busty Asian Beauties_ , which makes Sam vaguely uncomfortable -- and kicking Sam's jeans toward his bed. "Aren't you a little old to be having vivid wet dreams?" 

Sam should have known Dean wasn't finished. 

"Dean, can you drop it, please?" 

"So long as you're not dreaming about Bela again," Dean remarks calmly. Much too calmly for Sam's liking; he wishes that something would fluster _Dean_ once in awhile. 

"Dean, sometimes an erotic dream is just that, and there's no deeper meaning," Sam says defensively. He starts to pull on his jeans. 

"Dude, Sam, I hope you're gonna actually _change_ your underwear," Dean says, looking a little bit skeeved. 

"Dean? When was the last time you changed yours?" Sam shoots back evenly. 

"Well, uh..." Dean trails off, scratches his head, the magazine forgotten in his lap. He thinks for a minute, then grins triumphantly. "Why, just this morning." 

"And did _you_ have an audience?" Sam asks, kind of liking the gravel-rough edge to his voice. 

"Aw, is poor widdle Sammy shy?" Dean says, laughing aloud. "Fuck, man, I toilet-trained you. It's not like--" 

"If it's all the same to you, Dean, I'd rather change in private," Sam grumbles. There's really no way to explain to Dean that he'd either rather be naked around Dean for nefarious purposes, or not at all. 

"Fine, princess, be my guest," Dean says, and wriggles all the way onto the bed before closing his eyes. "I promise not to peek." 

Sam's right in the midst of settling the waistband of his cleanest pair of boxers on his hips when Dean startles him by speaking. 

"I am impressed, though, Sam. You are _definitely_ packing." 

Leave it to Dean to discuss the _size_ of Sam's package, even if it's just to fuck with him. It makes Sam unreasonably angry, actually. He doesn't like Dean commenting on his size if it's not out of awe or pleasure. 

"Dude, eyes to yourself," Sam says. "And if you can't do that, at least keep your mouth shut." 

"Sam, there's really no need to be _this_ much of a prude, you know." Dean rubs his forehead, yawns widely, raises his arms up over his head and arches his back, which makes Sam's cock immediately tent out the front of his boxers. 

"That has nothing to do with it," Sam says. _More like every time you talk about it, I get hard all over again,_ mutters that little voice in Sam's brain. 

"Hey, Sam, do you remember when you were thirteen and we got out the rulers and--" 

"Dean? _Shut up_." Sam fastens the button on his jeans and nearly catches his fingertips in the zipper in his haste to make himself decent and put more layers between himself and Dean's view. "That was downright cruel, Dean. You already knew the kids in the locker room mocked. Was it really necessary to add your two cents?" 

"Heh. Heh, heh, heh, it _was_ funny, though," Dean says, snickering kind of like Beavis and Butthead. Sam restrains himself from _calling_ Dean a butthead, because that would be childish. 

_It doesn't help that you were so much older,_ Sam thinks, _or that you were so fucking pretty. I wonder if this ridiculous crush dates back that far?_

"Well, at least, you were such a twink back then," Sam says. Dean rears up into a sitting position, eyes flying open, very dark and very green, and Sam's not sure exactly what that means. 

"I was not," Dean spits out. "I was totally virtuous." 

"Dean? You lost your virginity to your eighth grade teacher, I'd hardly call that virtuous." 

"I did not." 

"You came home that night from study hall and told me all about it, remember? And I said it was appallingly gross." 

"That does sound like you," Dean says reluctantly. "And yeah, okay, that sounds kind of like something I'd do." 

"I still think you were too young, Dean," Sam says, but this is an argument they've been having since Sam turned eleven, and he's never managed to win it yet. 

"You were just jealous," Dean says, purses his lips and blows the little bit of straw paper he'd been sucking on at Sam. 

"Christ, Dean, that's fucking juvenile," Sam groans in disgust, picking it off of his button-down. 

"I have a reputation to uphold," Dean says, lips curling into a smirk. 

"Usually, when you say that, you mean you're about to pick up some chick and you're hoping I'll give you some time alone in the motel room." 

"Nah, Sammy, that's for your own protection. You're welcome to stay and watch if you like." 

Sam can feel his body tighten up, can feel a trickle of liquid heat slide down his spine; there's no way in Hell Dean actually _means_ that, is there? Could he be that lucky? 

"That's so fucking typical, Dean," Sam says. "Dude, I'm ready -- at least as long as you don't spit any more straw papers at me -- are we gonna get breakfast?" 

"Watch and learn, Sam," Dean says, arching his eyebrow. "I'll show you just how it's done." 

"Oh, you always do," Sam says dryly. "And for your information, Dean, I lost mine when I was fifteen." 

"You know, as the person who raised you, I have to say I am utterly _appalled_ at your lack of moral fortitude." 

"Dean, be honest, did you even know what that word meant before I said it to you?" 

"Sam, you said it to me when you were ten. Of course I knew what it meant by then." 

Sam stifles a snicker, because that was the whole point, torment Dean in return for spending so much time and energy drawing attention to Sam's early morning embarrassment. 

"Just get in the fucking car," Dean says, unlocking the door. Sam slides into his seat and lets his knees fall open, because for once his cock isn't making its presence immediately known. 

At least until Dean looks into the rear view mirror and licks his lips, leaving them wet and glistening in the brilliance of the morning sunlight. Sam's cock is zero to sixty in less than ten seconds, and he has to shift his thigh to block it from Dean's sight, because if he's not careful, Dean _is_ going to catch on. 

Sam may have mocked him for being less than intelligent, but Dean _isn't_ stupid, and Dean could do the simple math of two and two, and that's all it would take to let Sam's secret out. He tosses his gaze out the window and tries to focus on corn and flat lands and things like swampy mud and the smelly creatures that live in swamps, and not, under any circumstances, on what it would feel like to jam his hand down Dean's jeans into the musky, sweaty environment of his underwear. 

Dean pulls the Impala up in front of a run-down diner, almost swallowed up by the cornfields surrounding it, and turns the key in the ignition. His eyes cut toward Sam, and then away, almost before Sam can catch the fleeting movement, but he _does,_ and he wonders just what it means. 

"We're here," Dean says unnecessarily. "You gonna actually eat this time?" 

"Depends on whether the food's like sawdust," Sam comments. "Hey, Dean, are we running low on cash?" 

Dean gives a distinctly shifty-eyed look. "I'm uh, not sure, Sammy. I'll have to count the money when we get back to the room. But don't worry, I won't make you stand on the street corner," he says. 

_That's because you earned a bundle of cash capitalising on your mouth,_ Sam thinks bitterly. _How quaintly American, to turn an accident of genes into an asset._

But Dean's sitting still, face quietly reflective, and then he shakes his head and twists in his seat to face Sam completely. 

"Come on, Sam, I'm serious. If we're low, I'll just hustle some pool." 

_I'll bet,_ Sam thinks. And then he has to smother a laugh at the stupid, careless pun. 

"As long as there's money for breakfast," Sam says, vaguely disappointed that Dean didn't confide in him, although why he was expecting Dean might, he has no idea. 

"Don't worry, honey, I'll always take care of you," Dean says, and he has the smarmy tone down perfectly. Sam can't quite keep from cringing away from Dean. 

"Holy God, Dean, don't do that. It's sickening." 

Dean's grin is as blinding as the sun off the Impala's fenders as they climb out of the car. 

"That was the whole point, of course," he says, far too pleased with himself. Sam sighs, and Dean laughs, which just makes Sam want to make sour faces even more. 

"It's too early in the morning for this," Sam says under his breath. 

"Sammy, it's almost eleven a.m. Did you not sleep as well as one might think?" 

"Give it a rest, Dean." 

"I think I'll have waffles and bacon," Dean muses. He actually rubs his chin, and Sam itches to follow Dean's fingers, to let the scratchiness of Dean's stubble abrade his fingertips. He wants even more to slide his mouth along Dean's jaw until he covers that mouth, breaks open the seam of Dean's lips and settles his tongue inside. 

And fuck, if that doesn't make his cock just pulse with blood. Sam groans inwardly. 

They pick the first booth that's not smothered with the too-hot sun through the glass windows, which are cleaner than Sam would have expected, and which is actually a bad thing, since a little grime would have kept the inside of the diner from being so swelteringly hot. 

Dean shoves up the sleeves of his leather jacket, reaches for a sugar packet, tears it open and drizzles the sugar onto his tongue, which gives Sam a glorious view of the inside of Dean's mouth, and the glitter of saliva on his tongue, and then, when he closes his mouth around the sugar, Sam's treated to the sight of Dean's lips, sticky and sparkling with the leftovers. 

He has to almost sit on his hands to keep from reaching out and wiping the crystals away, until he can suck them off of his own fingers. Dean looks downright bored, right up until the bus boy walks by, carrying a bucket full of dirty breakfast dishes, and Sam catches instantly the way that Dean perks up, even if it would have been imperceptible to anyone else. 

Dean's eyes follow the kid, who's actually more of a young college student, and the tight jeans he's wearing, the way the denim encases his thighs and backside, and Sam finds himself cataloguing the kid's physique, wondering just what it is about him that's got Dean so interested, and if it's something that Sam has -- _which is stupid, of course._

The double doors swing closed behind him, and suddenly Dean's eyes are hooded, and when the pretty waitress comes to take their order, Dean lays on the charisma so thick Sam can practically see her panties getting wet. 

"Aw, sweetheart, you put the sun to shame," Dean says, flicking his eyes up and down her figure. She's a little round in places, a little flatter in others than Dean might like, but she has cute, attractive features, and she has absolutely killer calves, which is not something Sam might ordinarily notice, but then again, these days he seems to notice anyone that Dean does. Almost as if he can convince Dean to look at him that way, if he can manage to acquire some of the same traits as the people Dean fucks. 

"What can I get you boys?" she says, but she sounds pleased. Her name badge reads Ariane, and then she takes a longer look at Sam, and suddenly her face brightens in a way it didn't when she was looking at Dean -- which is unusual. Sam's used to being a shadow whenever Dean's around. 

"I'll just have some toast," Sam says, because his stomach is suddenly trying to make a landing off the high bar and he's not at all certain he can tolerate anything else. Dean's obviously just chosen his next fuck, and it makes all of Sam's body hyper and twisty with anxiety. He can't wait, and it's fucking ridiculous how much he's looking forward to it. 

"I'm gonna have waffles, bacon, and sausage," Dean says with a scintillating smile. It's his most charming, but also his most fake, and Sam feels kind of bad for her, because Dean is putting on a show, but it's not for Ariane. 

No, it's for Sam, and he's pretty sure that Dean knows he's aware of what's going on here. But then again, he kind of hopes Dean doesn't, because that might clue Dean in to the fact that Sam knows Dean's going to fuck that bus boy the first chance he gets. 

"Anything else?" she says, but this time the wattage of her return smile is directed at Sam, which is a funny, unsettling sensation. 

"Just coffee, black," Dean says, and he looks a little bemused. 

"All righty then," she says. "Comin' right up." 

"Thanks, Ariane," Dean says, and she flashes him a smile as she turns to walk away. Sam follows her with his eyes, and he knows that Dean is doing the exact same thing. 

But before the food even gets to the table, Dean starts to fidget, then squirm, and then he throws a quick look at Sam. 

"Hey, Sammy, I'm just gonna use the john," Dean says. "I'll be right back, hopefully before the food makes it to us." 

Sam nods, but he knows that's not where Dean's going, and sure enough, Dean starts the walk toward the men's room, but at the last second he detours toward the kitchen, slinging his hip up against one of the double doors and loitering there until the kid opens it again. Sam watches Dean turn up the heat on his smile, put the pressure of all of his charm on him, and the kid wilts easily, holds the door open for Dean, who walks inside like he owns the place. 

Sam looks around for the waitress, but she's apparently gone to do other things, so he slips out of the booth and strides up to the double doors, easily tall enough to see through the slightly frosted glass. 

And what he sees makes his heart judder in his chest. That kid's white loose pants are around his ankles, and he's sitting up on the counter top, and for the first time Sam realises that this kid is easily as tall as Sam, and nearly as broad-shouldered, and he's got a firm grip on Dean's biceps, and Dean-- 

Well. Dean is sitting on the kid's lap, his ass slotted perfectly into the cradle of the kid's pelvis, and as Sam watches, Dean rises up and slams back down, and then he forces a rhythm, moulding the kid to his every whim, and every time he draws up, Sam can see the dark red flush of that stranger's cock as it slips free from Dean's body. 

And every time Dean sinks down, Sam's eyes are caught and unable to look away from the gorgeous sight of Dean's cock, uncut and sharply crimson, curving up toward his belly from-- 

_Dear God in heaven,_ Sam thinks, absolutely riveted by the scene unfolding in front of him. Dean's cock is dripping precome down the shaft, and he's shaven completely smooth; when the kid reaches around Dean's middle for his cock, it's Dean who jerks his hand away, holds it tightly by the wrist. 

Dean's leather jacket is discarded back at the booth, but his undershirt, a grey henley, is damp from the steam of the nearby dishwasher, clinging to the aroused points of his nipples, and then his cock bumps up against the hem of his shirt and leaves a pearly streak of precome across the fabric. 

Sweat stains are spreading underneath the arms, and Dean's face is ruddy with exertion, his forehead speckled with drops of perspiration. Sam's own cock is so swollen in his jeans that he thinks he might expire any second, and he doesn't even have time to wonder why Dean would turn down his own release, because at that moment the younger man drills upward with his hips, and his face goes funny and slightly ashen, and then Dean, arms quivering a little with his weight, drags himself off the kid's cock, and stands. He turns away from the window, and when he bends over to lift up his jeans, Sam can see the wet smears of come on his ass, and the light catches on the sporadic trickle of come as it's forced back out of his body. 

And Sam's balls tighten up, his thighs tense, his body contracts and his cock spurts come into his boxers, cock jerking over and over with the incredible force of his release, and Sam can feel sweat of his own blanket his entire face and soak through the thighs of his jeans along with the cream of his orgasm. 

He hurries back to the booth, throws himself into it, and arranges and rearranges his plaid over shirt until he's at least faintly satisfied that it's not so obvious what just happened, and then drums his fingers on the table, waiting for Dean. 

Dean comes back full of high colour, lips standing out stark and rosy in his face, hair spiky with his sweat and his hands are still shaking a little. Sam tries to keep his eyes off Dean's crotch, but he can't help a quick peek, and Dean's still hard, cock pressing solid against his zipper. 

Dean settles into the booth, gives Sam a brief half-smile, before opening up the newspaper he brought with him. Sam watches Dean read, watches those pouty lips form the words as he goes through the obituaries. 

The waitress brings their food, and she blushes a little and looks up under her eyelashes at Sam, and for the first time he feels a little stirring. Maybe. _Maybe I can have her, and it will take the edge off._

Sam gives her his sweetest, most soothing smile, and she instantly blushes all over, right down to the tops of her breasts, small but perky in her uniform. Dean doesn't look up from his newspaper, but he does reach under the table and tap Sam on the thigh, which Sam takes to mean, _go ahead_ , so he does. 

"Hey, do you mind if I take you out tonight?" Sam says softly, smoothly. She actually _twitters_ a little, smile taking her face into even prettier places than before. 

"Gosh, that'd be sweet," she says. 

"All right, Ariane. Tonight? Eight p.m.?" 

"That'd be seriously lovely, thank you," she says. "I've been needing to get out lately." 

"Thanks for the toast," Sam tells her, and she nods, before walking away, her hips swinging just little bit more this time. 

"Dude, Sammy, see? I knew you could score." 

"Dean, she's a person, try not to objectify her so much." 

"I'm just sayin'," Dean says. "Good for you, Sam." 

"We'll see," Sam says, and takes a huge bite of his toast. His boxers are crusted inside with spunk, and it kind of makes his breakfast taste funny in his mouth. Dean, on the other hand, inhales his entire meal, and then folds up the newspaper. 

"C'mon, let's go," Dean says, and stands up. Even now, his cock is still nudged up against the seam of his jeans. 

"Dean," Sam begins, but his brother waves his hand. 

"I'll just hustle pool," he says. Sam almost feels guilty about Ariane, but faced with Dean's perfect ass as he pushes open the diner door, Sam can't quite process proper emotions anymore. 

\--//--

Sam doesn't fuck her. He actually takes her to the same bar that Dean went to, and they drink girly drinks while watching Dean fleece a bunch of preppy students out of their not-so-hard-earned money. She doesn't realise what Dean's doing, and Sam doesn't tell her. 

He does ask her questions, though. 

"What do you do for fun?" he asks, and she cuts her gaze away from Dean. She laughs, light and slightly musical. 

"I like to read," she says. "And I'm pursuing my Bachelor's in Psychology. It's actually a lot more fun than you might think." She turns back to Dean. 

"He's not that interesting," Sam says, but it's more out of habit than anything else. 

"Did you know he's into you?" she says suddenly, and twists on the bar stool. "He can't keep his eyes off you whenever you're not looking." 

Sam reminds himself that she doesn't know they're brothers, and manages a weak smile. _He's just worried I'll be eaten by monsters,_ comes immediately to mind, but what he says is, 

"Nah. He's just naturally curious about everything." 

"Have you known each other long?" she says, perfectly inquisitive. 

"Practically my whole life," Sam says ruefully. It's almost the truth, but slanted just enough. For some reason he's not quite ready to tell her. 

"I'm serious, Sam. I thought you were both so pretty the instant I saw you, but he was so clearly uninterested in anyone else," she says. "I could be way off, but, Sam, this is what I'm doing my degree in. Reading people." 

"I wouldn't say that about Dean," Sam says, laughing a little. "He'll seriously nail anything with a heartbeat and that stands still long enough. But don't tell him I said that, because he doesn't realise I know." 

"That must be so hard on you," she remarks. "I mean, I imagine you must not reciprocate, but still, if you love him even a little it must be difficult to watch him be so careless." 

Sam doesn't even know how she can tell that Dean's been as careless as he has been, but he's not prepared to give that up yet. 

"Dean's a lot of things," he says instead, which actually says nothing at all. "I don't think he could actually stay in a relationship, though." 

Ariane suddenly leans in very close, her white hand coming up to his face, her lips parting. "Kiss me, Sam," she says, and so Sam obliges, descending on her lips, touching softly, barely a butterfly flutter of a caress, and she tips their lips closer together, increasing the pressure, and then Dean's at Sam's elbow, leather jacket slung over one arm and his face is hot from the combined smoke of the bar and the alcohol he's consumed, and Sam is almost ashamed that he's kissing Ariane but his eyes are open and fixed on Dean. 

"I'll be at the motel, Sammy," Dean says, and slaps him on the back. Sam pulls away from Ariane and wipes a hand across his mouth without thinking, but she doesn't look offended. 

"Why don't you drop me off and go on back with Dean," Ariane offers. "If you don't mind." 

"No problem," Dean grins, and Sam can tell that Dean _doesn't_ mind playing chauffeur to a pretty girl, even if she did choose Sam over Dean. 

Leave it to Dean to not even begrudge Sam catching the eye of a pretty girl he was interested in. 

For the first time all night Sam wonders what she saw in him that made her gravitate towards him instead of Dean, who had been slathering charm on her like butter. 

She climbs into the backseat of the Impala and settles down, head back on the seat, and Sam kind of wants to touch her auburn hair, but he kind of missed the train on that one, so he faces forward and waits for Dean. 

It's almost like she turned a switch though, and Sam is suddenly aware of every single time the heat of Dean's eyes lands on him. He keeps from looking, though, grateful that this time the slight hard-on he has is from kissing Ariane, and hopefully not related to Dean at all. 

When they drop her off, she waves cheerfully, plastering a slightly wet open-mouthed kiss to the crest of Sam's cheek, and he discovers that he hadn't even noticed she was Dean's height until she did so, and then she's disappearing through her front door, and Dean is finally looking straight at Sam. 

"What happened, Sammy?" Dean says, and he doesn't sound quite as disappointed as perhaps he should. 

"I just. She was a nice girl," Sam says. "I wasn't in the mood." 

"Well, fuck, if you didn't whack it constantly, you might've been able to take care of some of that frustration." 

_You mean like yours?_ hovers unspoken, but Sam's fairly certain that Dean's not even aware of the words hanging between them. 

Plus it doesn't help that he creamed himself just watching Dean be really fucking stupid. 

"Sammy, the next town, I'm gonna set us both up with something sweet," Dean says. 

"Yeah, I'm sure," Sam says, and lets his head loll back against the seat, eyes closing, much too sleepy and half-drunk to really care about what Dean's saying. It's not even a ten minute ride back to the motel, but by the time they get there, Sam's asleep. Dean shakes him awake, and for a split second Sam's still in the dream, staring up at the beautiful features of his brother, and he almost reaches for those lips before he blinks and remembers, stutters into wakefulness. 

Dean's smiling a little before he pulls back. "Come on, Sam, you'll sleep better on the motel beds, even if your freakishly long legs will probably hang off the end." 

"I'm. Dean." Sam muffles a yawn with his fist, manages to drag himself upright. "Wow, I think 'm drunk," he says, before he teeters on his feet. 

Dean's body is scorchingly warm everywhere it comes into contact with Sam's skin, and he's thankfully much too exhausted to spring wood, so he just enjoys the way Dean feels right up until Dean topples him onto his bed, shoes and all. 

"Careless," Dean says, but there's a thin veneer of fondness over the words. He doesn't untie Sam's shoes, but he does slide them off of Sam's feet, before grabbing the blanket from his own bed and throwing it over Sam. 

And then Dean sits down heavily on the couch, and Sam wants to protest, to tell Dean to go to sleep, or to ask Dean what's the matter, but the alcohol has made him sluggish and foggy, so he doesn't do any of those things, he just closes eyelids that feel like they're weighted with cement and falls asleep almost instantly. 

\--//--

When Sam opens bleary eyes the next morning, Dean is still on the couch, but he's fallen backward, head cushioned almost on the wooden arm, mouth a bit open and breath whistling in and out of his lungs. 

He's almost too hung-over to think about anything, but he remembers Dean not getting off, and now for some reason Dean's spent the entire night on the couch instead of going to bed, and Sam doesn't know what it all means. 

"Dean," he says, and his voice is scratchy, and his mouth feels like sandpaper. "Ugh." 

Dean doesn't wake up, and Sam stumbles into the bathroom, takes a piss that's acrid and burns a little, and nearly falls flat on his face when he tries to step over the ledge into the shower. 

He is, in fact, too hung-over to get hard, though, so he showers quickly, thinking about Dean only in little spurts, and finishes up washing his hair just as the door opens and Dean clumps heavily into the bathroom. 

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean says. "I think my bladder's going to burst any second." 

And when Dean unzips, Sam's cock takes a sudden interest, and Sam finds himself completely and totally fucked, hard as stone and hyper-aware of Dean in the room, his own cock equally naked, and the feeling is heady and overwhelming, and it makes Sam's head spin so bad he nearly vomits down the drain. 

Dean finishes up, flushes, which makes Sam jump, and grope for the wall, trying to escape the suddenly scalding spray. 

"Oh, sorry," Dean says, and he sounds really tired and worn. Sam's not sure what that means, why Dean should sound so tired, or why Dean would've sat up all night until his body finally dropped from exhaustion. 

"Dude, I'm gonna go for breakfast and bring it back," Dean says, still sounding weary. 

"Are you sure you don't want me to go?" Sam says, and his throat still feels like it's full of cotton. 

"Nah, you stay here and suffer," Dean says, sounding a little bit perkier. "I won't subject you to the sunlight just yet, you creature of the night." 

"Okay," Sam replies, and turns the faucets off with a screak. Dean leaves the room, lets the door slam behind him, and Sam winces as he grabs the nearby towel. He dries off quickly before bending over and scrubbing the water out of his hair. 

He can hear the Impala's low, distinctive growl as Dean starts her up. 

Sam takes his time to dress; in fact, he spreads out on his bed and gives himself a leisurely orgasm, trying not to let thoughts of Dean intrude. 

When Dean gets back, Sam can only manage to swallow some black coffee before passing back out on his bed, the pillow pulled down over his eyes. 

**Part Three**

And then, that night, Dean brings home Ariane, and she gives Sam a rueful smile. 

"I just couldn't refuse," she says, and Dean squeezes her up against his side, grinning. 

"You wanna bail on me, Sammy?" Dean asks, and Sam realises that _this is it._ Dean was apparently very, very serious when he suggested it. 

"I don't mind, honestly," Ariane assures him. Sam can feel his ears grow warm. 

"I'll just. Play something on my MP3 player," Sam says, and quickly turns away from them both. But no matter what he does, he can't block out the rustle of clothes as they come off, and it's disturbingly unnerving how easily he can tell which rustles and skitters are the sounds of Dean's clothes being discarded. 

He tries not to look, but he can't quite make his eyes obey, and whenever he catches sight of them, he finds himself seeking out golden skin and hard muscles, not the soft pillow of her breasts or the way her lips spread open as she feels pleasure. 

Dean fucks into her long and slow, and Sam watches his cock, realises that Dean's wearing a condom -- which is unusual -- and sucks on his own lips as his cock swells to epic proportions. 

The muscles ripple in Dean's back, his shoulder blades move under his skin, and Sam _wants_. He's tired of watching. He's _so fucking tired_ of being on the outside looking in, coveting and craving and never being allowed to taste. 

But he doesn't get up off his bed and go over to them, he doesn't do what he wants and splay his palms down over Dean's skin, doesn't lay his lips on Dean and hold him still until there's a bruise on that flesh. 

Dean's on top this time, and he's careful and tender and so attentive; he presses her into the mattress with smooth, well-modulated strokes, and she gasps and keens and reaches for him, and Sam watches the play of Dean's muscles, watches Dean's lips as he swallows her moans. 

And then she tenses wildly all over, and Dean rears up with her, but even though he cradles her throughout her orgasm, Sam never catches Dean come. 

And then Dean's eyes crinkle up at the corners and his mouth spills open on a cry, and he yanks her up to his chest, hangs on tight, and Sam-- 

Sam comes, unaware he was even close until he witnessed Dean completely lose it. 

But Dean lets her go quite quickly, and she dresses in the slight dark, and Dean sits cross-legged, still naked, condom disposed of and cock soft between his legs, and Sam's stuck completely, ogling in the rudest manner possible. 

Sam wonders what it all means. 

\--//--

There's no actual case in that town, since Dean has cased the entire local newspaper and found nothing, so they hop into the Impala and start driving cross-country, heading for Boston, and a possible haunting of some condominiums. 

It's a long drive, and Dean spends most of it being highly irritating, singing out the window at the top of his lungs, kicking off his boots and nearly killing Sam with the stench of his feet, and then he eats all of the peanuts, even though Sam's hungry too, and spends at least an hour sucking on his teeth, which is like, _the most annoying sound ever_. 

"Dude. Do you _have_ to do that?" Sam asks, finally, somewhere around Indiana. 

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. A guy has got to make sure his teeth are sparkling and white," Dean says. "Who knows when I might run into some smoking hot chick and need to make a good impression." 

Sam snorts. "Dean? First of all, _sucking_ your teeth is not the same as brushing them, and second, you find girls everywhere you go. I hardly think you need to worry about making a good impression, either, since you fuck most of them in the dark and then leave town before they even realise you're gone." 

"Well, it's better that than to raise their expectations," Dean says, and drags his lower lip into his mouth, sucks on _that_ for a few seconds, and then lets it ease back out, glistening wet and puffy. Sam's cock finds the whole process far more intriguing and arousing than Sam's brain would like. In fact, often times around Dean, Sam feels like his cock and his brain are having a permanent argument with each other. Sometimes, he thinks back to Stanford and remembers how simple it was, when all of his body parts were in agreement. 

Of course, he was also dating a girl at the time, and even thoughts of Jess don't dampen his ardour as much as he wishes they would, because even though there's still a little thorn-prick of sadness, most of it's faded, been replaced with the stupid, all-consuming crush on Dean that Sam's been suffering from these days. 

"Listen, Dean, I need a pee break," Sam says, somewhere in Ohio. Dean bites down on his lips until blood fills them in, flicks his eyes over toward Sam. At first, Sam thinks it's because Dean's trying to make himself more attractive for any nearby girl, but then it settles into his consciousness that maybe Dean is planning to seek out some guy to fuck him, and that, once again, makes Sam's lust flare up in tandem with his cock. 

I'm gonna take a piss, too," Dean says, pulling into a gas station just off the highway. Sam gets out of the car, and he and Dean start the walk to the restroom, but Dean pauses half-way there, eyeing the mini-mart speculatively, and Sam shrugs, continues into the restroom, unzips and uses the urinal. 

The restroom is empty except for Sam, so when he finishes up, washing his hands, he opens one of the stalls and locks the door behind him. It has a rather alarming gap between the door and the rest of the little cubicle, so Sam climbs up onto the toilet seat, squinting until he can make out the rest of the bathroom, and waits. 

Just when his legs are starting to ache and tingle, Dean enters, followed by another guy. The guy's kinda tall, with sandy hair and muscular arms. He backs Dean right up against the wall between two urinals, one hand on either side of Dean's face, and starts making out with Sam's brother. 

Dean doesn't let him kiss him for long, though. He pushes his face away, turning his head to the side, offering the thin skin on the column of his neck, and the guy obliges like it was his own idea, beginning to bite down until Dean groans in a mix of pain and arousal. 

Sam's been hard since he first conceived of the idea of Dean getting fucked again, and this display isn't helping his situation any, but then again, it occurs to him that if he really minded, he wouldn't go out of his way to spy on Dean in a way he hasn't done since he was a kid and insatiably curious about things like girls, Dean, and what Dean did with girls. 

Dean lets out a long breath and his hands come up around the guy's back, linking together until the guy lifts Dean's shirt with one hand and starts stroking up the bare, no longer scarred skin there. Sam can't see his face, never even saw it when they both came in, but he has shaggy hair from the back and Dean's eyes are closed, but Sam can see his face clearly even from his strange vantage point. 

But, strangely, Dean doesn't take it any further this time, he lets the guy hump against his leg for a few heartbeats, and then his hands fall away and his eyes open, nostrils flaring like he suddenly smells something. Sam doesn't know if it was unpleasant or not, because all he can smell in the humid little room, lit from a window high up in the wall, is Dean's sweat and the intoxicating aroma of Dean's arousal, which is something he's gotten used to after playing the voyeur for so long. 

Plus, he was witness to Dean's orgasm when he was with Ariane, and Dean smelt bitter and strong in the motel room, but while maybe that should be a deterrent for his desire, it has done nothing except ratchet up the intensity of it. 

But then Dean's pushing against the wall of the stranger's chest, and he's not taking the hint, he's still practically chewing on Dean's neck still, and just when Sam thinks he might have to blow his cover and rescue his brother, the man raises his head and licks a long stripe up along Dean's clenched jaw. 

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," the man rumbles, and pulls away. "Is it something I said?" 

The dialogue sounds strange, rehearsed, like Sam's watching an old movie even, just substitute Dean for the girl in the drama. But Dean forms his expressive lips into a smile, and shakes his head. 

"No, it's not that, I just realised my little brother is probably wondering where I am." 

_Not a chance,_ Sam thinks, _I know exactly where you are and who you're with._

"Is he a damn sight as beautiful as you are?" the man asks, running a hand up along Dean's temple. 

"Oh, he's--" but Dean breaks off before Sam can find out just what Dean was going to say, and shakes his head a little. "It doesn't matter. I gotta go, I'm sorry." 

"But," the man says, and cocks his hips forward, "you've got me all worked up, baby. You can't just leave me like this." 

"I'm not a whore," Dean says, but his voice sounds funny. "I was just looking for a good time, but I can't ignore my little brother, I have no idea what trouble he might get into." 

_Like watching my older brother get fucked?_ Sam wonders, and the guy huffs out a breath in obvious disappointment. 

"D'you think you could check on him, and then just put those lips to good use?" he asks hopefully, but Dean's already shaking his head again. 

And then Sam realises that the guy has been stroking one hand along the length of Dean's cock throughout the entire conversation, and it all falls into place. For whatever reason, Dean doesn't like to get off with men, and this guy is making him uncomfortable, breaking the cardinal rule Dean seems to have set up for himself. Which explains why Dean is now trying to extricate himself. 

Sam thinks maybe it's because Dean's afraid that he's gay, that maybe he's worked it out in his mind that if he doesn't come, it doesn't count, and therefore he can't accept physical pleasure from any of these encounters. 

Dean halts the stranger's hand and begins to ease out from behind the obstacle of his body. The guy drops his hands away and backs up, and makes another sound of unhappiness. 

"I never saw a kid as pretty as you in a place like this," he says, "but maybe another time." 

"Lookit, I'm not even staying in town, I'm just passing through." 

"Well, I won't give up hope then," he says. "I'm a trucker on the weekends, so who knows." 

"Who knows," says Dean, and walks over to the sink, washing his hands. He's walked out of Sam's view now, and frustratingly, Sam's treated to the slam of the restroom door and then the trucker unzipping and wanking into the urinal, which is really not what Sam hid out to see. 

It also imprisons him in the stall until the guy leaves, which means that Dean is outside, wondering where Sam is, and Sam's going to have to come up with some creative cover story of where he was when Dean was in the bathroom. 

But when he comes back out into the sunshine, Dean's not waiting for him, not looking to ask sticky questions. In fact, Dean's pacing out behind the gas station, eyes shaded with his hand, looking like he's having an argument with himself, so Sam emphasises his footsteps as he comes closer, and when Dean looks up and cuts himself off abruptly, Sam's forced to wonder just what he was talking to himself about. 

"Hey, Dean," Sam says. "I looked around inside the mini-mart for a Slurpee machine, but--" 

"Yeah, I know," Dean says. "It's broken." 

"That's a shame. You wanna get an ice cream somewhere on the way?" Sam asks, and even though it sounds silly, like he's talking to a five-year-old, Dean's face lights up anyway. When Dean turns to face him completely, the sun suddenly falls onto Dean's shoulders like a cloak, and there's a slightly yellowed bruise on his neck. 

And that's when Sam remembers slugging someone in the jaw for not getting Dean off, and it turns out it was Dean's idea all along. Sam feels a little ribbon of guilt unfurl in his gut, but it's long too late to apologise now, that was in some other godforsaken state, and Sam can't even recall how long it's been since he first caught Dean with his pants down, taking it up the ass like it was all he'd ever wanted from life. 

"Dude, I'm gonna get a banana split," Dean says, face brilliant with happiness. "Thanks, Sammy." 

So they walk back to the Impala together, and Sam realises that at some point, without even noticing, his hard-on deflated to the point where he could have a conversation with Dean without feeling like all of his brain cells were currently located in his cock. 

Sam's the one who spots the Dairy Queen, and they stop for the ice cream he suggested, Dean ordering the banana split he said he wanted, and Sam gets chocolate chip cookie dough in a cone, and discovers that ice cream was _such a bad idea_ as Dean alternates between sucking on the ends of the banana slices and licking ice cream off his lips. 

Sam's not sure he's ever been so hard in his entire life, and he can barely concentrate on eating his own ice cream, though, once, when he looks up from beneath his eyelashes, just for a second, Dean's staring at his mouth, and Sam realises he's licking the ice cream in much the same manner as he did the first cock he ever sucked. 

Not that there's any reason to tell Dean that he sucked cock for the first time when he was sixteen. And once again, he wonders how old Dean was, and if Dean had any technique the first time he tried it. 

When he raises his head completely, though, Dean's looking elsewhere, and Sam thinks maybe he imagined the whole thing. 

Dean finishes up his banana split and practically makes love to his spoon as he tries to get the last of the melted ice cream out of the little plastic container. Sam's so caught up in staring that he forgets to eat his own ice cream, and when he brings it up to his mouth again, he discovers that it's dripping out the bottom of the cone onto his jeans. 

It's really monumentally unfair that the ice cream is vanilla, and looks like little drops of come on his thighs. He hurries to slurp the last of it down before any more leaks, and because of that, he almost misses the contemplative eyebrow Dean directs towards him, but once again, when he tries to meet Dean's eyes, his brother's not actually looking at him anymore. 

It does bring Ariane's observations back to the fore, though, and Sam wonders if maybe there was more truth to what she said than he'd originally believed. 

By the time they're back in the car, Sam's almost convinced himself that she's actually crazy, and that it was all in his head, but he can't quite shake it completely. 

\--//--

Dean wants to drive straight through to Massachusetts, but Sam can tell he's damn exhausted after awhile, because Dean stops trying to be annoying and make Sam nuts, and just drives the Impala like he can't quite uncurl his fingers from around the steering wheel, so finally, in Pennsylvania, Sam suggests they stop for the night at a motel. 

"Dean, if you're not gonna stop, at least let me drive." 

"No, Sam, you've been awake the entire time, you might--" 

"What makes you think I'm more likely to crash the Impala than you are?" 

"Well... I got nothing," Dean says finally. "But I'd still rather--" 

"Just stop for the night, Dean. It's like, what? Are you trying to prove you're Superman or something?" 

"Ha, Sam. You know as well as I do that I'm Batman." 

"Yeah, you're Batman," Sam says, intentionally repeating himself. Even though it does bring back memories of Dean's last year. 

"Shut up, Sam," Dean says, but even his voice sounds tired. 

"Either let me drive, Dean, or stop. Besides, I kind of want a real bed to sleep in tonight." 

"Even if you never fit in any of them, you freak of nature?" 

"Even then," Sam says, and Dean finally shrugs. 

The Blue Lodge motel sports garishly bright blue stucco, and inside the office, the walls are electric blue as well, and Sam's kind of nauseated by the whole thing, because while he likes the colour blue, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. _Unless it's watching Dean get filled out._

But even though Sam wanted a shower and some time alone with his right hand, he makes it into the room and exhaustion swamps him. He doesn't even manage to be sly enough to watch Dean get undressed before he's essentially passing out in the nearest bed. 

\--//--

The next morning, Sam actually wakes up first, and Dean's still unconscious in the other bed, the covers kicked off, and Sam feels cheated by the fact that Dean actually didn't get any farther with the undressing than dispensing with his overshirt. 

Sam watches Dean sleep for awhile, until the sun starts to spill over the window ledge as it rises. He has no inkling why he's awake so early, but after watching the way Dean's body moves as he breathes, Sam soon has a tent in his pyjama pants, and he lies back down in his bed, on his side, still facing Dean, and reaches slowly inside his waistband. 

The first tug feels like heaven with the warmth of Hell underlying it, and Sam tries not to think about the fact that what he's doing is against one of the die-hard rules of roommates; namely, _do not spank it while in the same room as your sleeping roommate._

Sam's not sure if it's better or worse to be lusting after said roommate while you do it, or whether it's even worse than _that_ because his roommate also happens to be his brother. 

He's about half-way to completion when Dean gives a gusty sigh, rolls over onto his side, and begins to rub his eyes. Sam barely has time to get his hand back out of his pants, but it's too late, after all, because Dean blinks a few times and then gives Sam a sleepy smile. 

"Dude, Sammy," Dean says, voice rusty, "if you keep that up you're gonna to start shooting blanks." 

Sam freezes completely. "I uh, didn't know you were awake," he stammers. 

"Sam? You think I could sleep through all that noise?" 

"Dean, I'm not making any noise," Sam protests, but he knows it's a lost cause. 

"Then you have the loudest skin I've ever heard; either that, or that was the tell-tale sound of some guy turning his own crank." 

"You know what, Dean? You're so vulgar." 

"Aw, Sammy, that's one of the things you love best about me." 

"And you know what else? I hardly think I need to worry about that. You think either one of us is ever gonna want kids?" 

"I thought you did want kids," Dean says, but he doesn't sound like he's completely paying attention. "Dude, have you seen my cell phone?" Dean asks, flipping the covers back and forth on his bed. 

"I thought you kept it in your pocket," Sam replies. He's still hovering in that limbo between turned on to the point of orgasm and soft enough that maybe he can ignore it if he just finds something properly disgusting to think about. 

But that's when Dean sits up in bed, and his t-shirt rides up, exposing the slight curve of his stomach and throwing into sharp relief the morning wood Dean has, pushing out the fabric of his jeans. 

Sam? Well. Sam feels heat and shame burst in every blood vessel in his face as his cock twinges, jerks, and explodes within the confines of his sweatpants. 

"Dude, Sammy, did you just cream yourself, or am I imagining this truly sweet and inspiring moment?" 

Sam wants to expire from mortification. This was _not_ how he envisioned this going. 

"Well, it's nice to see things are proceeding apace," Dean says, not even bothering to stifle a snigger. 

"Did you find your cell phone?" Sam asks, desperate for a change of subject. 

"Yeah, it was with my wallet," Dean says, standing up and stretching with a huge yawn. His cock is still clearly outlined by his jeans, and Sam would probably get hard again if he hadn't just lost it in his own pants. Dean, of course, isn't bothered or abashed at all about displaying himself in front of Sam. 

"I'm gonna shower," Dean informs him, and Sam would be thankful for Dean turning around, except that presents him with Dean's ass, which is criminally pert. 

"Are we gonna get going when you're finished?" Sam asks, as Dean walks into the bathroom. The door doesn't even close all the way, and Sam realises that Dean has no clue how many times Sam has seen him naked now. 

"As long as you don't need a shower too," Dean calls from inside the shower stall, the echo making that evident. 

_I wish I could just conserve water and get in_ with _you,_ Sam thinks. _Or get_ in _you._

"Oh, but you do, don't you?" Dean says, followed by his most obnoxious laugh. 

For a second Sam thinks he spoke that out loud, but then he recaptures the thread of the conversation, and wonders grimly just _why_ he wants to fuck Dean so badly. 

The water starts up, and Sam kicks out of his sweatpants and scowls, because there's a rather dramatic wet spot soaked through them, and so he balls them up and shoves them into his duffel, regretting the fact that he only took the time to put pants on last night, and not also a pair of clean underwear. At least then maybe it wouldn't have been quite so obvious. 

Sam actually can't help listening to the way the shower spray sounds in the bathroom, craning his ears for any indication that maybe _Dean_ is giving himself a one handed salute. 

Unfortunately, if Dean is doing so, he's better at masking it than Sam apparently is, because not only does the shower turn off in a reasonable amount of time, but Sam can't hear Dean make any kind of funny noises, either. 

Dean comes out of the bathroom rosy from the hot water, droplets clinging to his obscenely long eyelashes, and some still slipping down the hard washboard of his chest as he tucks the corner of the hand towel into his ear, trying to get the water out. 

Sam is forced to look away, thankful that he bothered to get dressed, and even more grateful for the length of his current shirt. It seems that lately, whenever he's anywhere near Dean at all, his cock just won't obey him. 

Dean grins, though, and Sam doesn't even have to look at his brother to feel the warmth of Dean's expression on the back of his neck. 

"Come on, Princess," Dean says. "You ready to hit the road?" 

"Just gotta finish tying my shoes," Sam replies. He does it quickly, and they're back in the Impala by ten in the morning, driving fast down the highway, the windows open and the wind in Sam's hair. 

\--//--

Boston, at first glance, is _beautiful_. It's the first time Sam's ever been there, and he can't help practically hanging out the window with his mouth open, the incredible serene beauty of the landscape for once overshadowing his preoccupation with Dean, and therefore in turn, his cock. 

The Impala idles in traffic for awhile, and it gives Sam the chance to examine his surroundings even closer. He realises that if he were to go back to school, spending more than a few minutes in Boston might be just the thing. Like, if he could possibly ever tear himself away from Dean. 

_Yeah, that's unlikely._

"It's a nice city," Dean offers quietly. "I've only ever been here once before, in the middle of the night. Dad and I, we--" he stops himself. 

"I know, Dad didn't like cities," Sam says, just as quietly. 

"Nah, and he wanted to stay in one even less, which is why we're here. This alleged haunting? We drove out here once to investigate it, but Dad -- well, Dad just couldn't stand to be around this many people at once." 

Sam knows Dean better than anyone, and there's something else Dean's not saying, but Sam can't divine what it might be. 

"You just, what, left? Didn't even go inside?" 

"Yeah, well. We took a quick walk-through, but that was at dawn, and we didn't find anything." 

"So what are we doing here, then?" 

"Making up for lost time," Dean says, and that makes no sense to Sam, but he's not only unwilling to ask about it, but unsure that Dean would explain it even if he did. 

"Dude, we're going to have to go into the outskirts of Boston, Dean, to find a motel, I think. Or at least one that we can afford." 

"Sam, we can use one of the--" 

"No sense in wasting the credit, Dean. The sooner we max it out, the sooner you have to apply for more. Just because you're stealing the money doesn't mean you have to be reckless about it." 

"Aw, listen to the Business Economics major," Dean says. He clicks on his left turn signal, then swears colourfully and takes a right instead. "Stupid fucking one-way streets in Boston," he grumbles. 

Sam twists in his seat, and sure enough, it's a one-way street that Dean was just about to go down in the wrong direction. Having never been to Boston before, he was unaware that it was so difficult to navigate, but he finds out quickly when they get lost because Dean has to keep avoiding the one-way streets. 

And then, of course, Dean won't pull the car over to ask anyone for directions. Sam sighs in the passenger seat and leans his head against the car door, face smushed up against the window, eyes half-closed, and waits for Dean to concede defeat. 

Eventually, Dean slows the car down and shouts out the window, and they manage, with some hardship, to track down a cheap motel. And then Dean swears again, because the parking is ten dollars a night in the parking garage across the street. 

"I hate this fucking city," Dean says. But Sam -- Sam can't really be angry about it, because in their criss-cross of the city, they passed the Boston Public Garden and the Boston Common, and he kind of loves the way the green of the grass contrasts the streets, or the flowers in the Garden, paired with ornate brass fencing at the entrances. 

"You're only saying that because you hate to ask anyone to help you find your way around," Sam says, though. 

"Yes, well, Sam, you fail at giving directions." 

"Dean, you didn't exactly give me a map of Boston streets to work with, you know." 

Dean pulls the Impala into the parking garage and slows to take the ticket, still frowning over the cost of parking in the middle of the city, and Sam kicks up his leg, and then steals a glance at Dean's profile, which for some reason is even more attractive when Dean is clenching his jaw like that. 

Dean parks the Impala, and when he opens the trunk, he glares down at the weapons cache. 

"This is stupid, Sam. I hate leaving all this shit in the Impala when she's parked in a garage like this." 

Sam doesn't mean to do it, it's stupid and reckless and _stupid_ , but he walks up behind Dean and runs his hand down over Dean's shoulder, moulding his hand to the wing of Dean's shoulder blade, and then leaning over him to look into the trunk as well. 

"Dean, everything's hidden, nothing's gonna happen," he says, and for a split second he thinks Dean actually moves more into the touch a little, before Sam's withdrawing his hand and Dean's raising his arm to slam the trunk closed. 

There's no way for him to tell if that just weirded Dean out, because when Dean faces him again, his eyes are just as clear and green as ever, and they don't _appear_ troubled, so Sam can only assume that Dean took it as normal behaviour -- and for the first time in a long time, Sam realises he hasn't been touching Dean like he used to, not since he first stumbled on Dean getting reamed in the ass by a stranger. 

And that time, his cock had risen in his jeans, startling him with the out-of-the-blue response, because until he'd caught Dean unawares, he hadn't realised just how _deeply_ the crush had run, or how much he _wanted_ Dean -- which had culminated in some quality time with his right hand -- and then he'd discovered just how painfully jealous he was. He hadn't understood why, at first, until he had the epiphany: _He'd never imagined Dean taking it from guys, too, and so he'd always just figured his crush was hopeless._ But then, Dean had thrown all of that out the window, and that had opened the floodgates in Sam -- _literally._

And that leads to a very important question, mainly: did Dean notice the sudden lack of easy familiarity from Sam? 

\--//--

And then, Sam is sprawled across his bed, relaxing on his elbow, reading a book about local hauntings, looking for information on Charlesgate, when Dean grabs his leather jacket off the back of the chair and heads for the door. 

Sam looks up, and kind of wants to gouge out his eyes, because not only does Dean always look sickeningly good in the leather jacket, but he's apparently decided on leather pants this evening, too. In fact, the pants are clinging to his thighs like a shiny black second skin, and that makes Sam wish that he could be as close to Dean's gorgeous thighs as his pants currently are. 

Which, naturally, _that_ is never going to happen. 

"Where're you goin', Dean?" he says, setting a bookmark between the pages. "Seriously, dude, this building is so haunted we're going to be here all year." 

"I'm gonna go out and get us some liquor and beer," Dean says, leaning his hip against the door, giving Sam an obscure little smile. Sam's hotly aware of the fact that his jeans are tight across his ass, and his ass is currently on display, and he can only figure that Dean's kind of amused by that fact -- it's not unlike Dean to mock Sam whenever he presents himself sexually, even the slightest bit. 

"Have you researched the building before? It says here it used to be some dorm rooms, but that the most recent college that owned it -- Emerson College -- sold it in the 1990s because the students couldn't study due to the furniture moving of its own volition all the time." 

"Yeah, I know. Dad and I couldn't find any support for most of those stories, but then again, we also weren't stupid enough to set up with a Ouija board in there, either, like some of those kids, half-cocked as they were." 

Sam's brain hears 'half-cocked' and catches there, stalling like a type-writer that has come to the end of the line. Dean's actually still talking, Sam can see those lips moving, but he's fixated on images of Dean's cock like the last time he saw it, licking his own lips as he watches Dean's, because he can almost imagine that-- 

"Dude? Are you listening to me?" Dean says, snapping his fingers. Sam's brought abruptly back to the present, quickly nodding before asking, 

"Uh, sorry, I got distracted, what were you saying?" 

Dean laughs, twisting his keys in his hand. "I was just sayin', that when Dad and I did our walk-through, there was really only one place that might've set off the EMF meter, and that's because even I could feel something unsettling when we got near this one big closet on the sixth floor. But Dad -- well, Dad didn't feel anything, and he was frustrated and wanted to get the hell outta Dodge, so we just sorta bailed." 

"Has anything dangerous or bad actually happened in this building since?" 

"Just one suicide," Dean says, still flipping the keys through his fingers. "But it happened on the sixth floor, and that was enough of a bell going off for me to come back and check it out." 

"I'd've said you just wanted to come back and visit Boston, but you're a lot like Dad, Dean. I know you don't really like cities, but they have their place in the country, same as the nameless small towns you like so much." 

"It was careless, Sam, to quit the city like that, I know it. I know it now especially. But you were away at school and I wasn't so good at tellin' Dad off, ya know?" 

Sam grins hugely. "Yeah, Dean, I think I might have noticed that by now." 

"Smartass. Anyway, I didn't feel like I should tell Dad what to do, but God. I should have. I'm gonna hate myself if this suicide is the result of a malignant spirit, Sam." 

"Don't do that to yourself, Dean. Dad wasn't perfect, and you couldn't see that at the time, you should just--" 

"Don't make excuses for me, Sam. Anyhow. I'll be back in a bit, okay? You might wanna try looking up Becky Millstone on Google, because that's the name of the girl in the obits. Said something about how she had just moved into a new condo in the old Charlesgate building, when she committed suicide less than a week later. Her parents claimed that she had never shown any indication of depression, that it came as a total shock for them." 

"Dean, I'm not saying you're wrong or that you didn't feel something, but suicide _often_ comes as a complete shock to people. That's not unusual." 

"Yeah, well, that's why I said do some research, college boy. See if you can dig up some medical records or something." 

And then Dean gets a very furtive look on his face, just before he turns around and lets himself out of the room, which pings Sam's radar for whenever Dean is acting suspicious, and figures he's about to take some detour on his way to the liquor store, likely to get fucked somewhere. 

He wants to follow Dean, but the hunt _is_ important, so he fires up the laptop and begins to search Google for any information he can find on their suicide. 

After about a half-hour, he hears the faint growl of the Impala, and then he listens hard, only Dean doesn't come back into the room. He hears boots outside of the room, but then it's quiet, and then all of a sudden there's a stifled gasp from directly under the window. 

It's dark outside the room, and Sam's been lounging on the bed with only the light from the laptop illuminating the area, so he stands up as quietly as he can and crosses over, using two fingers to separate the mini-blinds a little, and looks down. 

And sweat immediately breaks out all over his body. 

Dean's directly under the window, down on his knees, and it's like a porno angle, because Sam can't see anything of the other guy except his cock as it goes in and out of Dean's perfect lips. In fact, it's so much like an angle a director would use for one of those 'picture-yourself' pornos that Sam involuntarily does just that -- _(well, except his cock is bigger, thicker, and prettier)_ \-- and feels his pupils dilate, feels his cock fill in the loose fabric at the front of his jeans, and can't stop staring at Dean, or the way the glow of the lamps outside the room cast shadows from Dean's stupidly long lashes across his cheeks, or highlight every single freckle scattered across his nose, or make his lips look even redder than ever as the guy fucks Dean's mouth wide open with his cock. 

Dean's eyes are closed, face pulled up in concentration, and Sam just keeps imagining himself in that guy's place, and it's _his_ cock splitting Dean's lips apart like that, _his_ cock that keeps driving in deep until Dean's swallowing around it in his throat, _his_ cock that keeps causing Dean to hollow his cheeks like that, until they've filled in with shadows and Sam _wishes_ that it was _real,_ that it truly _was_ him in that guy's place, and without even thinking, he starts to rub his cock over the outside of his jeans, and then the guy's fucking Dean's mouth hard enough that it's actually snapping Dean's neck back as he tries to keep up. 

And then, the guy grips Dean's hair and pulls him away, and Sam can hear the 'pop' of suction as Dean releases the stranger's cock, and then he's coming in strings all over Dean's lips and chin, and some of it even catches on the fineness of his eyelashes, clinging to them as Dean opens his eyes and looks up through them at the stranger. 

The yellowed light reflects off the pearlescence of the liquid on Dean's face, and then Dean's reaching for something, and Sam watches, rapt, as Dean scrubs the come from his face using a handkerchief, and then the guy slips him some money as Dean stands up, and they actually _shake hands_ , which seems kind of odd to Sam, and then Dean-- 

Sam throws himself toward the bed and barely manages to arrange himself on it again before the key beeps in the door and Dean re-enters, a brown paper bag from the package store under one arm. 

"You find anything, Sammy?" Dean asks, tossing his keys down onto the little table by the door and setting down the paper bag. "I got us some whiskey and vodka, you want?" 

"Maybe in a little bit," Sam says, and feels heat flush into his face as his cock jolts in his jeans at the roughened sound of Dean's voice, and knowing what Dean was just doing and _why_ his voice sounds that way is more than just a mindfuck, but a _bodyfuck_ too, and Sam doesn't really care if that's not a word. 

His cock pours come into his jeans and Sam wants to _die._ At some point, and he's not sure when, wanting Dean has led to this stupid embarrassing tendency to come in his clothes, no matter _how_ much stamina he used to have. 

And even at fifteen, when he'd lost his virginity, he'd had a lot. 

Dean stops, tilts his head, and studies Sam; Sam, for his part, tries not to look as red as he feels, and tries to keep his legs situated so that Dean can't see the growing wet patch at the junction of his thighs. 

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asks. "You look a little... constipated." 

Sam barks out a laugh, because that was pretty much the last thing he was expecting Dean to say. 

"I'm fine, I'm just getting eyestrain trying to find some info on this girl that isn't public knowledge. She seems way too self-adjusted to be a suicide." 

"That's what I'm tellin' ya," Dean says. "Hey, you gonna be a dick if I go outside and have a cigarette?" 

"Uh, Dean? You don't smoke." 

"Well, not usually, no. But I... I could kind of use one right now, so I bought a pack while I was out. D'you want one?" 

And Sam... He wants to say no, he really, really does, but he has an idea, and so he shakes his head a little. 

"I'll come out in a bit, keep you company," he says instead. "I'm just gonna do one more search of the hospitals in the Boston area." 

"All right, well, I'll be just outside," Dean says, and unlocks the door again. "Feel free to join me when you get sick of being such a geek." 

"Dean, it was your idea for me to research, remember?" 

"Yeah, well, all work and no play makes Sam a very dull person to spend all my time with." 

"Cute, Dean," Sam says. 

"Well, have fun then," Dean says. He closes the door carefully behind him, and Sam tries not to think about the sexiness of Dean with an oral fixation. 

Sam tries to concentrate on the research, but the image of Dean, a cigarette held between those lips, has made Sam useless for anything else, so finally he closes the laptop lid and stands up, stretching and taking a moment to make sure his jeans are dry, before following Dean out of the room. 

Dean's leaning against the side of the motel, highlighted by blue stucco, blowing curls of smoke up towards the moon when Sam comes out. Sam walks over and stands next to Dean, letting himself slouch up against the wall as well, which has the added bonus of bringing their shoulders together. Dean takes another pull on the cigarette, then offers it to Sam, who can't refuse _that_. It might be the closest he'll ever get to kissing Dean, so he takes the proffered cigarette and settles it between his own lips, almost high on the slight damp on it from Dean's mouth. He takes a drag and hands it back to Dean, holds the smoke in his lungs and imagines it's Dean's breath, being breathed into his body via a barely-there kiss. 

Dean finishes up the cigarette and drops it, crushes it under his boot, and turns a little, and in the strange highlighting from the bug lamp, Sam can't quite read his expression, but it's almost as if Dean's looking at Sam in the same manner that Sam often looks at Dean, even if that's just ludicrous. 

"Come on, Sam, I'm gonna hit the sack. Unless you wanna be a pussy and spend a shitload of time staring at the stars," Dean says. 

"Nah, Jess used to like that," Sam responds. "I haven't really felt like doing it since -- since the fire." 

"Yeah, I can see why," Dean says softly. In tandem they turn toward the door, and their shoulders brush again as they pass through it, and Sam feels his cock tighten weakly, because he's exhausted, and not really able to get hard any more that night. 

Dean, though, isn't quite fast enough to keep Sam from seeing the hard-on he's sporting, and for the first time ever, Sam wonders just what caused it. 

He wonders what it all means as Dean switches off the bathroom light and comes back to bed. 

Sam falls asleep thinking about Dean beating off, even though he knows that Dean didn't. 

**Part Four**

The next day, they go to speak to Becky Millstone's parents. Her mother is red-rimmed and limp-looking, kind of like the tired dishrag hanging in her kitchen, and her father is big and blustery looking, but his cheeks are sunken like he used to be a lot bigger and dropped a lot of weight recently. Her mother introduces herself as Mara Millstone, and then her father says, gruffly, that his name is Jed Millstone. 

Dean starts in right away with the questions, but he doesn't get very far, because the grieving parents are too shaken up by the tragedy that's touched their lives to do much more than sniffle and tear up at every question. 

So Sam turns on his most soothing tone, carefully touches Mara's hand. 

"Are you sure, Mrs. Millstone, that your daughter wasn't depressed?" 

"She was doing so beautifully in school," Mara says, wipes at her eyes. "She had a new girlfriend, and she seemed so happy." 

"It was that apartment," Jed interjects, sounding anxious and angry. "She never should have moved out so young. It was too traumatic, too much responsibility." 

"Mr. Millstone, did Becky ever invite her girlfriend over to stay in the apartment?" Sam asks gently. 

"Why, yes, she did, actually." He looks almost surprised by the memory. 

"Do you have her girlfriend's name?" Dean asks, trying not to sound too eager, but Sam's not sure if it's because the deceased was apparently a lesbian, or because this could be their best lead so far, the best read on the victim's mental state. 

"Sara Middleton," Mara says in a wrecked voice. "But she's distraught, keeps calling here and asking for Becky." 

"Like she doesn't remember what happened?" Dean asks. 

"Well, you know, now that you mention it? Every time she calls it's like a bad connection, like her cell phone's getting terrible reception." 

Sam can feel Dean's interest perk at the same time his own does. 

"What do you mean?" Sam says, trying not to sound too excited. 

"Well, a lot of static," Jed says. "And -- really hard to understand. But I'm pretty sure it was Sara." 

"Have you spoken to Sara at any other point since the last time she called?" 

"You know, that's the strangest thing. I saw her in the market just two days ago, and she seemed subdued, but not out of her mind, like she is on the phone. She even commented on my groceries, and said how sorry she was about Becky." 

"You know what, thanks for your time," Dean says, standing up smoothly. "Can you just write down Sara's address for me?" 

Becky's father does it, passes it over to Dean, shakes his hand. Sam shakes Mara's hand, and they walk back to the Impala somewhat elated. It's pretty obvious that the Millstones have been receiving phone calls from a spirit. Whether it's Becky, the spirit from the apartment, or another one entirely, Sam knows neither of them can discern just yet. 

But it's still a huge step forward in the investigation. 

\--//--

Sara Middleton is petite and very, very pretty, which is a shame for Dean, since she also has eyes for neither of them. Her face is a little pale, especially when they ask about Becky, but she doesn't seem like she's pining, which is a good thing. 

"Have you been to the apartment?" Dean asks, and gives her his most charming grin. She sniffles a little and doesn't react to Dean's sheer beauty, which is a pretty good indicator that she's a lesbian. This doesn't seem to deter Dean at all. 

"I -- yes. Twice. And the second time, Becky was hanging up her clothes in the closet. She kept rubbing her arms, though, and she seemed -- strange. Depressed. She's never been like that before, not in all the time we were together." 

"And that only happened when she was in or near the closet?" 

"Look, this is gonna sound totally crazy, but every time I got near it, I felt really fucking miserable too. And I've always been an upbeat person." 

"Do you have any idea why?" Sam asks her carefully. 

"Well, that's the weird thing. Every time I got close to it, I started to feel really claustrophobic, like someone was looking at me. But Becky -- Becky was in front of me, and we were alone in the room." 

Dean's been looking more and more grim throughout the interview, and Sam knows why; Dean's piling on the mental self-guilt, blaming himself for letting this one slip through his fingers. Sara smiles at them a little wanly, and gestures. 

"Listen, I can't -- I can't talk about this anymore, I'm sorry. Would you please leave now?" 

Sam nods instantly, grabs Dean's arm and doesn't even register that he's doing it as he tows Dean out of the apartment. 

Dean, though, is no longer focused on Sara and how pretty she was. His eyes are dark and his lips are downturned. 

"This is my fault," he says, sounding furious and sad all at once. "Because of me, that girl in there lost someone she loved." 

"Dean, don't do this to yourself. Dad should have known better. It's not -- there's nothing else you could have done." 

"I had _my own car_ , Sam. I could've stayed, finished up the hunt. If I had--" 

"Dean, you didn't think there was a reason. It's not stupid. Come on, let's see if we can get in to see the apartment, case that closet with the EMF." 

"All right," Dean says, low. "But this time I'm not leaving till I put this fucking spirit down." 

"I wonder why she committed suicide, though," Sam muses. "It's not like -- well, most spirits like to do the killing themselves." 

"Well, you saw the obit, Sam. Did it sound like it could've been misinterpreted?" 

"Said she was hanging in the closet," Sam says, then snaps his fingers. "Of course. Recreating the original violent death, maybe?" 

"Yeah, that's what I'm thinking. Gotta get the history of the building and see if there's been any other suicides in that closet. Or murders, even, that involved hangings." 

"Dean, you know, if there's something there, I'm probably gonna sense it." 

"Yeah, I know." 

\--//--

Walking up to Charlesgate, Sam can tell immediately why so many people have claimed the building is haunted. Most of the 'vibes' -- so to speak -- that he's getting from it are relatively harmless, but right away he can feel something darker, a tortured spirit that never moved on, and he thinks, immediately, that it must be this spirit they're here to put to rest. 

Dean flashes a police badge and says they're looking into the suicide of Becky Millstone, and the superintendent lets them in. The EMF doesn't come out until they get to the sixth floor and walk into her old apartment, still cordoned off with police tape. 

Dean heads straight for the closet and pulls it out, but that isn't even really necessary, as Sam can tell instantly that this is where the darkness was emanating from. He nudges Dean and points to the closet, which is empty of everything, except an inexplicable bloody handprint on the far wall. 

"Think the police noticed _that?_ " Sam asks, when Dean's gaze falls on it and his eyes widen. 

"I'm thinking that if Becky hung herself, she sure as hell didn't leave that behind." 

"Makes you wonder what did," Sam says, head cocked. 

"That it does," Dean agrees, and the EMF meter goes crazy, chirping and lighting up, and then the atmosphere turns very, very cold, and all the hair on Sam's body stands on end. Dean, too, looks a little freaked, and while that's the body's normal reaction, for Sam it's even worse. He can almost see the spirit, can practically hear it speaking in the empty spaces in the room, kind of like it's talking _between_ the silence, and Sam knows right away that Dean can't hear it, because he's almost certain the only reason _he_ can is the demon blood tainting his humanity. 

"Dean, listen. This isn't -- it's not -- it's not safe. We gotta get out of here, right now," Sam says, yanking on Dean's arm and dragging him back away from the closet. "We can find out what happened here, but we gotta do it from the motel room. Come _on_ , Dean," he says, and he can sense Dean's mood plummeting, his guilt rising up in him like bile, taking over. 

He practically carries Dean out of the room, and then he starts walking very, very fast, pulling Dean along behind him, until they reach the street. When he looks up, he can see a very angry face in the window of the room they just left, and Sam knows, _knows_ that room was empty just moments ago. 

Dean shakes his head, looks up, catches sight of it too, and recoils. "That's one nasty fucking spirit," he says, and his voice sounds strained, thready. "I was -- God, I felt so _awful._ " 

"I did, too, kind of," Sam says, hushed. "Mostly I could hear it -- _him_ \-- talking. And he was fucking _angry_ that we were intruding." 

"I think I get that," Dean says, and starts walking down the street, kicking the stones on the sidewalk. "Let's haul ass and find out what's going on up there, and put that nasty thing to rest." 

"I agree," Sam says. He follows Dean, but he's still too uneasy from the danger Dean had been in to even pay attention to the way Dean's ass moves in his jeans, which, from this vantage point, have gotten a little tight on him. 

It's actually a good look, though; Dean's pretty smoking with a little extra weight on him. 

They buy subway tickets and take the T back to the motel, and when they get inside, Dean looks suddenly shifty, like he can't sit still, like he can't be cooped up inside just yet. 

"Listen, Sammy, I'm gonna do the laundry," Dean says, but he's got that _I gotta get fucked_ expression in his eyes, and so Sam nods like his pulse didn't just triple with anticipation, and helps Dean gather up the dirty clothes. 

Dean tosses the laundry bag over his shoulder and waves a little, before escaping out of the room. 

Sam does some quick searches on the history of Charlesgate, and then shuts the laptop lid and jumps off the bed again, grabbing his own room key and some money for the T, shoving it into his pocket. 

It takes him a few minutes to figure out where Dean's headed -- with a little help from his psychic powers, focusing them on Dean -- and then he follows his brother. 

\--//--

By the time he gets there, it's already started; Dean's naked from the waist down, sitting on top of the washing machine, body visibly quivering from either the vibrations, the feelings of pleasure, or both; between his legs is situated someone who's probably at least as tall as Sam, if a little bit thinner and less muscled, and his hair isn't quite as long as Sam's either. 

Watching the guy pound his cock into Dean, Sam notices for the very first time how he compares every one of Dean's lovers to himself. He's a little ashamed of that; Dean's _not_ fucking Sam, why would Dean ever even _want_ to? Just because Sam's fucked in the head doesn't automatically mean that Dean would be broken in the same patterns that Sam is. 

The guy is giving it to Dean in very shallow strokes at first, but they gradually deepen and lengthen, and Dean moans, gripping the guy's shoulders, thighs tight around his waist, head thrown back and throat working convulsively. 

And then, just before Dean comes, his brother lets go of one of the guy's shoulders and makes a vise-like circle around his cock, staving off his orgasm, and once again Sam wonders what that _means_ , why Dean keeps doing it. Surely the point of getting fucked is to get off on it? Why always refuse himself that last part of the game? It's like being the pitcher for nine innings, pitching until you're exhausted, and then, just before you strike the last guy out, walking off the mound and heading for the dugout. 

That close to a win, it makes no sense why you would give up the honour. 

Which is why it makes no sense to Sam that Dean holds off his orgasm until the other guy spills within him, and then pulls out, condom-less as usual, and peels off some bills and tosses them onto the top of the washing machine. 

He zips up his pants and jerks Dean's face up by the jaw, kissing him brutally, before grabbing his laundry and heading for the door. 

It's really kind of remarkable how Dean can get _anyone,_ anywhere, to fuck him, and to even pay for the privilege. Sam starts off down the street, takes the subway back to the motel room, and is sitting on the bed still doing background checks on Charlesgate when Dean comes back in, looking windblown, lips sunset-kissed, hair mussed from the guy's hands, and drops the clean laundry on the floor. 

"Find anything?" he says, and he sounds much more relaxed, even though a quick inventory of Dean's lower body turns up an impressive erection. 

"Well, nothing so far," Sam says. "I did some more digging on our suicide, and she was definitely too well-adjusted; that, coupled with our experience this afternoon, suggests that our spirit is a suicide, or a cunningly staged murder. I couldn't turn up any dirt on her, either. She was deeply in love with her girlfriend, called her parents every Sunday, and attended all her classes." 

"But nothing on the spirit itself?" 

"Nah, he's being much more bashful," Sam says distractedly. "Hang on. I think I might've found something." 

Dean walks over to the bed, nudges Sam's thigh until he moves, and sits down on the edge of the bed, next to Sam, staring over his shoulder at the screen. 

"Listen, one Rupert Graves supposedly lived there in the 1930s, and it says here he was rumoured to be a gangster, part of the Mafia. He turned up, crap, yeah, this has gotta be it. He turned up hung in a closet on the sixth floor, and the police could never explain it. Either he got in too deep and got murdered for it, or he got in over his head and killed himself because of it." 

"That definitely sounds like our guy," Dean remarks, and when Sam looks up, he finds Dean close enough to kiss, his thigh pressed up against Sam's, and then Dean gets that expression again, and Sam's pretty sure this is the first time he's gotten the same _need to be fucked now_ expression twice in the same day. 

Dean gets up, starts pacing the room like he's jumpy in his own skin, can't relax anymore; just like that, all of the peace he'd apparently found from the fucking in the laundromat is gone. 

"You all right, Dean?" Sam says, and it's the closest he can come to acknowledging Dean's little habit without letting on that Sam knows _exactly_ what Dean's been spending his nights, days -- mid-afternoons -- doing. 

"I uh, yeah. I'm gonna have a drink," Dean says, and crosses over to the mini-fridge where he stashed all of the liquor. He emerges with a bottle of vodka and drinks it straight, which makes even _Sam_ wince in sympathy. 

"Dude, pass some of that over here," Sam says, because his head hurts a little from the combination of being too sensitive to spirits now, and from trying to sniff Dean out psychically earlier. 

Dean brings over the bottle, and Sam takes a long swig, relishing the heat at the mouth of the bottle from Dean's lips, and watching him from under his lashes and wishing he could just be _bold_ and take what he _wants_ \-- kiss those lips once and for all, instead of settling for the pale shadow of putting his mouth on things Dean just had _his_ mouth on. 

They drink companionably until the bottle's empty, and then Dean lists a little to the left, having drunk more than Sam and considerably more trashed. He hiccups, belches loudly, and Sam, in his own state of inebriation, manages to find even _that_ hot, which is pretty much what convinces him it's time for bed for both of them. 

He knocks up against Dean's leg, because Dean is nearly asleep sitting up on Sam's bed, and Dean seems to take the hint, stumbling and actually _crawling_ over to his own bed, before levering himself up on top of the bedspread. Sam watches Dean, eyes blurred by liquor, and falls asleep watching Dean try to get comfortable. 

\--//--

The sound of enthusiastic vomiting wakes him the next morning at dawn, and needles feel like they're being stabbed into his eyes when he ventures to open them. He has to force down his own stomach fluids, because the bathroom's occupied at the moment and he'd rather not throw up all down the front of his t-shirt. 

Dean pukes a little bit more and flushes, emerging pale and lips very red, which is still strangely attractive even though Sam knows why that is, and Sam takes one really good look at him, catches a whiff of his brother, and runs for the bathroom himself. 

They don't even have to talk to each other to know that breakfast is out of the question; Sam's less hung-over so he goes out to Starbucks down the street and buys them both huge, bitter black coffees, and they sit in the motel room like ghosts themselves, sunglasses covering their leaky eyes as they suck down the coffees. 

Sam's got aspirin in his duffel, and Dean swallows it gratefully at the same time Sam downs his, and then they sit in silence until the coffees are gone. It takes about an hour and a half for Sam to feel human again, and less like he just woke up from the dead a second time. 

Dean's not quite done being ashen and shivery, though, so Sam hogs the shower for awhile, fucking into his fist and remembering Dean, bare from the waist down, taking it like a whore in a laundromat, and he doesn't even feel guilty this time for using Dean for his own perverse fantasies. 

By the time he gets out, the hot water's more lukewarm and Dean's asleep again, face scrunched into the mussed up bedspread, creases on his face. Sam smiles a little, feels fondness for once instead of blinding arousal, and finishes up getting dressed and towelling his hair dry. 

Dean sleeps for another four hours, and in that time, Sam tracks down the death certificate online for Rupert Graves, which points him in the direction of where they'll have to go to find out where he's buried. 

In the end, it turns out he's buried in the cemetery on the Freedom Trail, although when they finally find it, Sam realises at once that the information they'd been given was faulty. It's his first inkling that the spirit might be more powerful than they were expecting. 

Walking back down Park Street, heading toward the Emerson dorm at the corner of Boylston Street, Sam gets the opportunity to see the Common up close from outside of the car, and it makes him feel peaceful in a way he hasn't really since he started to notice Dean in a sexual way more and more. 

Dean's quiet, still a little hung-over, but they find the proper cemetery soon enough, and take down note of where it is and where the correct grave is before shoving their hands in their pockets and trying to appear innocuous as they head for their motel again. 

They go back around midnight, dig for what feels like hours -- making Sam's muscles all feel like over-cooked noodles -- and then set the bones on fire, and Sam feels a little guilty for desecrating one of the graves in the beauty of the city, even though it will be a positive thing in the long run. 

By the time the fire dies out and they re-bury the grave, Dean's covered in dirt and muck, sweaty and smelling like grave dirt and musk, and they try to keep the shovels in the shadows as they walk back to the Impala, parked on the street, which luckily is acceptable in the middle of the night. 

Sam's just as dirty, but he already knows he's going to have to wait for the shower, because Dean never took one that morning, and so he waits in the wooden motel chair as Dean rinses away the dirt and exertion. 

"I'm goin' out," Dean says as soon as he emerges from the bathroom. "I gotta walk off some of this energy, or I'll never sleep." 

Sam would have believed him utterly if not for that tell-tale pinched look in his features. Dean's going out to find someone to fuck him, and Sam's gotten to the point where it's a sickness in his blood, he can't keep away; if he can't fuck Dean himself, then he wants to see every single instance of Dean's naked, pleasured skin, hear every gasp and internalise it all because he can't have what he _really_ wants, which is Dean all to himself. 

Dean slams the door behind him, and Sam's too keyed up to sleep, so he showers as quickly as he can, and despite the lingering headache, he searches for Dean with his mind again, finally zeroing in on his brother in the middle of the Boston Public Garden. 

This time, though, he's not as lucky as he usually is, and neither is Dean. He gets there just in time to see Dean, legs wrapped around the denim-clad waist of someone Sam's never seen before, close his arms around the guy's clothed back and drive himself down onto the guy's cock, and that's when it goes to shit. 

Sam hears the sound of the hooves first, and plasters himself into the shadows, but Dean's not so lucky, the lights from the street lamps are shining directly on him where he's pressed against the concrete underneath the Boston Garden bridge, and the cop comes into view and halts his horse, dismounts and pulls his flashlight, even though it's not needed; this cop has gotta have known the instant he saw them what they were doing. 

Sam wants to help, but there's nothing he can do except watch as the officer shouts for Dean to raise his arms, and then the two lovers are separating, and when the cop orders Dean to get dressed, he waits patiently, then frisks Dean down, reaching into his pocket and retrieving the wad of bills, and Sam can feel his stomach shiver and grow queasy, because there's no way that doesn't look exactly like just what it was: Dean fucking someone, in public, for money. 

Sure enough, the cop cuffs Dean, and Sam buries his face in his hands, because that's just what they need, someone fingerprinting Dean and discovering for the second time that his death has been 'exaggerated'. 

The cop grabs the other guy, too, and the three of them depart, and Sam figures if Dean doesn't call him or come home by morning, then he'll have to let the cat out of the bag, that he was watching Dean. 

Sickening, but true, and if it will get Dean out of jail, then it will have to do. 

\--//--

Dean comes into the motel room looking the worse for wear around eleven in the morning, though, and even though he doesn't say anything about what actually happened, Sam guesses that he must have called someone they knew to post bail, especially before someone realised just who they had in lockup. 

"Got a call from Bobby this morning," Dean says brightly, all forced innocence. "He's got a hunt for us up in South Dakota. And I got a call from Mrs. Millstone, too, says the weird phone calls've stopped." 

Sam extrapolates from this that for one thing, Dean got Bobby to bail him out -- must've wired the money or something -- and that for a second thing, they've obviously gotta clear out of town right quick, before Dean gets picked up for prostitution again. 

He doesn't think Dean is ever going to confide in Sam that he got picked up for prostitution in the first place, so they pack up and hightail it out of Boston, pausing only for Sam to get close enough to Charlesgate to confirm that the spirit is gone -- and it is, thankfully -- and then they're speeding down the Mass Pike. 

Sam turns 'round just once, to watch Boston disappear behind them, a little wistful and a little sad that he'll probably never get to go back. 

\--//--

Bobby's not at all surprised to see them, and the first thing he does is give Dean a slant-eyed look, before clapping them both on the shoulder. 

"Dammit, Dean, you're a sight for sore eyes," he says. "And it's nice to see you boys, but I think maybe you only ever show up when yer in trouble." 

"Aw, Bobby, it's awesome to see you too," Dean says, grinning, but looking a little guilty anyway. 

"Well, you know where yer room is," Bobby says. "You gonna settle in, or are ya just passing through?" 

"Lookin' for hunts," Dean says, and then strides out of the room and up the stairs. Sam listens to his boots on each stair, but before he can follow, though, Bobby grabs him again with a hand on his shoulder. 

"Listen, Sam, I can see it plain as day. I cannot even _imagine_ why Dean don't see it, or how you don't see the look on that boy's face whenever he's got an eye on you, and I ain't gonna pretend I think it's healthy or good or nothin' like that, but I hate to see you boys miserable." 

"I have no idea--" Sam starts, but he should have known better than to think he could fool Bobby. He would have been able to fool John, even, probably anyone else in the world, even Dean; but Bobby has always been too insightful for Sam's own good. He knew the minute he saw Sam at fifteen and a half that Sam was no longer a virgin. Gave him quite the lecture, too. 

"Sam, that boy couldn't live without you, can't live with ya either. He's tyin' himself up in knots over what he feels, put him out of his misery, have a little compassion." 

"I still don't--" 

"Don't play dumb, Sam. You want Dean. Dean wants you. What's the fuckin' problem?" 

"Dean doesn't--" 

"Sam, Dean goes out and fucks people for money, and then tortures himself while he does it, just because he's makin' himself insane over his little brother. You tryin' to tell me you never fuckin' noticed? I thought you were more perceptive than that." 

Sam can only stare at Bobby, stunned into silence. This time, the type-writer has run out of ribbon, and Sam's mouth is hanging open. He kind of hates that Bobby can always, _always_ tell what's going on with them. 

"Sammy, look. Just take what you want, kid. Dean's never gonna make the first move, because he'd think he was takin' advantage. It's all up to you, ball's in your court as it were." 

"What if you're wrong, though," Sam says, desperately. "He'd hate me for ever." 

"'s not gonna happen, Sam. Dean couldna hate ya if he tried. You think for a second that boy'd go downstairs for you, but he would just leave you high and dry over anything? Evena if I was wrong, which I ain't." 

"This has gotta seem like--" Sam can't finish his sentence. 

"Like I said, ain't gonna pretend it isn't all kindsa fucked up. But that's life, kid, 'specially for you Winchesters. Might as well try and snatch some happiness wherever you can; ya both deserve it. Take pity on your brother, Sam, before he destroys himself trying to deny what it is he really wants." 

"Like. Now?" Sam feels his throat start to close. 

"You got a better time planned?" Bobby says, and Sam shores up his courage, follows Dean upstairs and into the room they've shared since they were kids. 

Dean's sitting in the armchair, staring out of the window, and in the mirror, he can see that under his eyes looks bruised, the skin puffy. He hasn't been crying, but taking a really good look at him, Sam finally catalogues all of the ways the guilt has been eating Dean up, wearing him down like a stone been too long in the ocean; Dean's pale, waxy, and there's hollows in his cheeks that weren't there a few weeks ago. 

Dean looks like he's been drained of blood from the inside out, like he doesn't know what to do with himself, and Sam wants to kick himself in the nuts for not truly _seeing_ Dean even in all the time he's been looking and coveting. All that whoring has taken its toll on Dean, it seems. 

Sam walks up behind the armchair, drops his hand down on the back of Dean's neck, cups him and feels how cold Dean is to the touch. Dean doesn't even startle, but his hand comes up to cover Sam's. 

"Bobby tell you?" he says despondently. "Shoulda known this was a mistake." 

"The only real mistakes in life are letting golden opportunities pass you by," Sam says, feeling Dean's skin heat up from the contact with Sam. "Yeah, Bobby told me quite a lot." 

Watching Dean now, it all finally falls into place. Not letting himself come, fucking people for money, fucking girls with Sam in the room, bailing every time he got turned on from being around Sam. Dean wasn't seeking out those men because he liked the fucking, he was seeking them out to fill a void; not letting himself get off, though, that was to punish himself for wanting Sam. 

All this time, Dean's been doing stupid reckless things, and Sam's been watching him do them, too afraid and paralysed by his own neuroses to understand just _why_ Dean was doing them. Dean must have been looking at Sam all the time Sam was looking at Dean, but they were both too good at hiding it, at lying to each other. So Ariane was right, then. Sam bites his lip. 

"Dean, I owe you an apology. I should've seen what was right under my nose." 

"Don't know how you could've," Dean says, still sounding dispirited. 

"Dean, I know. I -- uh. I've been watching you. Do things." 

Dean tenses under his hand, but he doesn't say anything, just holds himself rigid until Sam extricates his hand and comes around in front of the armchair, obscuring the window until Dean's eyes finally focus on Sam's face. 

Sam kneels down and takes a leap of faith, leaning in and bringing their lips flush together, finally, _finally_ taking what he's desired for so long. And kissing Dean, at first, is a monumental disaster. Dean's frozen, and Sam's too unsure, and the kiss stagnates, goes nowhere until Sam firms up the pressure and urges Dean's mouth open. 

And then everything dissolves into a flurry of desperation, kissing crazily, mouths sopping wet with each other's spit, Sam rutting his cock against Dean's calf, and before he has any idea what he's planning next, he's dragging Dean out of the chair and shoving him to the floor. 

Dean, now, he's kissing back, hands pulling at Sam's hair before streaking down his back and rucking up Sam's shirts, and then there's even more haste and wildness as they rip each other out of their clothes, finally caught up in the fervour of having each other when they both thought it was something they could never have. 

Dean's penchant for fucking strangers has led to him keeping lube in his jeans' pocket, and Sam can barely get enough coated on his cock before he's breaching Dean's body, Dean lax against the hard wooden floor covered only by a threadbare throw rug, and Sam enters Dean too fast, but Dean just catches his pained noise in his throat and raises his legs up even higher, wrapping them around Sam and using his feet in the middle of Sam's back to drive Sam's cock the rest of the way in. 

"Holy ever-loving fuck, Jesus _Christ_ you're huge," Dean bursts out, and then Sam's moving, fucking Dean quite literally into the floor. Dean's tailbone makes a muffled thud every time Sam thrusts, and Sam reaches down and tightens his fist around Dean's cock, pumping him until the skin gathers up in his fist, until his thumb catches on the crown and he's never really done this before with Dean, so he's not even paying attention as the precome slides down his fingers, and he works it into Dean's skin purely by accident, but Dean gasps and his back bows up off the floor, just as Sam manages to skitter his cock along Dean's prostate. 

It turns out all of that watching has led to Sam knowing not only exactly what to do, but exactly what Dean likes. 

And then Sam fits their chests together, sweat making them move easily against each other, Dean's cock still moving in and out of the circle of his fist between their bodies, and slots Dean's earlobe between his teeth. 

He bites gently, moving along the side of Dean's face, Dean's stubble abrading his tongue as he whispers, 

"Dean, where did you learn to suck cock like such a pro?" 

And Dean murmurs back to him, directly into Sam's ear, the combination of the words and Dean's breath making Sam shiver all over, causing his skin to break out in goose bumps. 

"I was fourteen," Dean says. "Met up with this guy from algebra, you remember all those extra study sessions? Well, he taught me a lot. He was older'n me, and he liked to lay back and take it, like to fuck up with his hips, and I just kept gagging until I finally learned to relax my throat. Told me to suck it like I meant it, to sheathe my teeth, to lick up an' around and learn to like the taste of come." 

"And then? Did you swallow it the first time, Dean?" Sam says, smoothly stroking back inside Dean. 

"Yeah, I fuckin' did," Dean moans back, his breath scorching against Sam's ear. "I got kinda surprised, but I did what I was told. And then, after that, every Tuesday I'd go to his house to study, and he'd suck me off, and then I'd suck him off, and one afternoon he even taught me to sixty-nine." 

"We gotta try that next," Sam says, slamming Dean into the floor again. "Come for me, Dean. Come on, you earned it." And Dean tenses up all over, body straining and arching, and shoots against Sam's belly, soaks his fingers with his come, and for the first time Sam loses it _inside_ Dean, and not in his pants or into his own hand. 

"And then I figured out how to lick it all around, pay attention to underneath the head, and really taste it until I swallowed it down," Dean says, breathless. "Was interesting that he was cut, and I wasn't. I kinda like that better -- being uncut." 

Sam withdraws, cock splattered with his own fluids, and Dean sits up, drags Sam into his arms before laying him down against the floor in turn. He leans down and licks up Sam's cock, and it's almost too much, but Dean comes away with Sam's come clinging to his lush lips, and grins. 

"And Dad didn't have you done either," Dean says. "It's like, too fucking perfect." 

Sam thinks that's probably as close as Dean's ever gonna get to admitting that he loves Sam, and strangely, that doesn't bother Sam at all. 

Covered in each other's fluids, they still curl up together in the bed and fall asleep. 

\--//--

Sam takes a piss one morning about a week after they first fucked, and it burns like _hell_ , and staring down at his cock, which is kind of inflamed, Sam realises that he probably _caught the clap_. 

_Dean_!" he bellows, and his brother comes skidding into the doorway, staring at Sam with wide eyes. 

"What is it?" he says, sounding extremely concerned. 

"You fucking moron," Sam says, not particularly kindly, "you gave me the fucking _clap._ " 

"I -- uh. I did _what_?" Dean looks genuinely confused. 

"Dean, I haven't fucked anyone else since Madison until a week ago, and now I've got the clap. And you weren't exactly _careful_ , you know." 

"Uh, sorry?" Dean looks really sheepish now. "I didn't realise--" 

"You didn't even _know_?" Sam shrills. He hates how he sounds, but his penis is throbbing in pain, and it's not the most romantic thing in the world to catch a sexually transmitted disease, particularly from your brother -- how do you explain _that_ one to a doctor? 

"Well, to be fair, Sam, you fucked me without a condom, and you knew what you were getting into. Heh, getting into." Dean snickers. 

"Could you try to restrain the five-year-old for a few minutes, and stop trying to blame me for your previous careless sexual behaviour?" 

"Well, sorry, Sammy, but it's the truth." 

"Yeah, well, _you_ can explain that to the doctor, Dean. And try not to let on we fucked each other, because I'm pretty sure that's illegal in South Dakota." 

Dean quirks his lips a little, then shrugs. "We'll just have to go to different doctors. I'll go to the regular one and you can go to a clinic." 

"Fine," Sam says, still a little bit irritated. 

"You gotta admit, Sammy, nothing says love like an STD. Now _that's_ caring and sharing," Dean says, and Sam throws the extra roll of toilet paper at him. 

\--//--

They both test positive for gonorrhea, and glare at each other as they swallow the antibiotics -- well, to be fair, it's mostly Sam glaring at Dean -- and then they wait the prescribed three days before returning to be tested again. 

Sam's clears up right away with one dose, but Dean's been untreated longer and it takes two more doses before his goes away. 

Sam, in the meantime, has instituted two rules: _no love without a glove,_ and _no hopping in the sack 'till Dean's a little less diseased_. 

This makes Dean ornery and frustrated, and he snaps at everyone, and so Sam leaves him in bed one morning and goes down to breakfast with Bobby. 

"You boys all right?" Bobby asks, as he serves up some eggs and bacon to Sam. "You ain't fightin', are ya?" 

"Nah, just a little bump in the road," Sam says, shoveling the food into his mouth in a fairly good impression of Dean's eating habits. 

"I hope that's not a literal bump," Bobby says, eyebrow raised. "Not that I've ever heard of such a thing." 

Sam laughs outright. "No. More like, Dean's a flaming idiot, as usual, and spread the clap." 

"Oh, that boy," Bobby says, shaking his head. "I always knew he was gonna do somethin' stupid." 

"At least it's easily treated," Sam remarks. "And I'm cured, even though Dean's not quite yet." 

"Oughta've known Dean would manage to fuck it up," Bobby comments. "Not surprisin' in the least." 

Sam finishes up his eggs and starts in on the bacon, the last forkful of eggs disappearing into his mouth. 

"It was worth it, though," Sam offers through his mouthful. 

"Sex was that good?" Bobby asks, looking a little disconcerted, but not overly so. 

"Hell yeah," Sam grins. 

"Aw, to be that young and vigorous again," Bobby says. 

Sam wrinkles his nose. "Overshare," he says tightly. 

"Sorry, kid," Bobby says, standing up. "I'm gonna be out in the yard, feel free to let Dean know breakfast is downstairs." 

Sam nods, and Bobby leaves the kitchen. 

\--//--

They leave South Dakota two weeks later, and Dean's cured, finally, and so is Sam, so they discuss things as the Impala roars down the highway. 

"No more other guys," Sam says first, firmly. "I don't wanna risk catching anything else." 

Dean's been given a clean bill of health in all other areas, which is a lucky thing considering all the unprotected sex he had. 

"Do we need condoms?" Dean asks hopefully. 

"At least for awhile, Dean. Might as well be overcautious." 

"Aw, man, that sucks donkey's balls, Sammy." Dean changes lanes, hurtling into the left lane without his turn signal. Sam grabs the door handle and hangs on. 

"Charming, Dean," Sam says. "You'll get used to it, and fuck, but I think I've earned the right to ask." 

"And--" 

"No more fucking for money, either, Dean." 

"Chicks?" Dean spares a glance for Sam, and he looks so much healthier -- filled with vitality and so pretty it hurts to look at him -- that Sam's cock firms up in his jeans. 

"If you really want to, Dean," Sam consents, but he can tell from the little wrinkle of Dean's eyebrow that his brother doesn't really want anyone else except Sam. 

"Nah, you know I don't, Sammy," Dean says, surprising Sam with actually admitting it aloud. He feels his lips stretch into the sort of smile he hasn't had on his face in months. He can even feel his dimples cut into his cheeks, and Dean flushes a little, and when Sam looks down, Dean's cock is at attention too. 

"Pull over," Sam says sharply, and Dean doesn't even question it, just easily takes the Impala onto the shoulder and shuts her down. Sam slides over into the centre of the bench seat, unzips his jeans and tugs out his cock, reaching for Dean. 

Dean's way ahead of him, though, finally on the same wavelength, as Dean sheaths and lubes up Sam's cock, and then shimmies out of his own jeans. He lowers himself onto Sam's cock, grimacing at the feel of the condom at first, and then sinks down until his ass is perfectly flush against Sam's hips. 

It's a risky thing, they might _both_ get arrested this time, but Sam can't bring himself to care as he begins to swivel his hips, canting up and almost dislodging Dean, except that Dean's got a death grip on Sam's thighs, and he moves smoothly in rhythm with Sam's thrusts. 

His thighs are bruising under Dean's fingers, and to return the favour, Sam bites down on the back of Dean's neck, sucking hard until Dean's bound to have a glorious hickey there in a matter of minutes. He keeps snapping his hips upward, filling Dean, taking them both to heights they've never reached before. 

Dean's shirt is sticking to him with sweat, and so is Sam's, and then Sam reaches around Dean and laces his fingers together around Dean's cock, jerking in time with his thrusts. 

Dean shudders in Sam's lap and comes, and Sam can see it spurt up Dean's chest, looking over his shoulder and into the rear view mirror. The sight is so overwhelmingly arousing that Sam follows Dean right after, and it's a little bit depressing that when he lifts Dean off he's not gonna leak Sam's come out of his ass, but a decision ought not to be thrown out on the very first test of it, so Sam picks Dean up, hisses as Dean's body reluctantly lets Sam's too-sensitive cock go, and then it's an interesting tangle of limbs as they both try to put their clothes to rights again. 

They drive for another two hours and find a motel, the Apple Blossom, and as soon as they get inside, Dean's all over Sam, ripping his buttons from their holes and stripping them both, falling backwards onto the bed and pulling Sam down on top of him. 

And despite his best intentions, Sam fucks Dean fiercely into the mattress without the benefit of a condom, and when they both come, simultaneously and quavering in each other's arms, Sam finally feels _right_ about everything. The guilt is gone. 

He flips Dean over, and waits for long minutes to recover, before he fucks Dean again, this time with his brother's face squashed against the bed and his ass high in the air, receiving Sam's cock like it's some kind of benediction, and then Dean comes without Sam even having to touch him -- and when Sam comes, he can't resist a quip about Dean's stamina -- and then Sam drags his cock back out of Dean's body, collapsing to the side and swallowing Dean up with his arms. 

He drifts off to sleep with Dean's hair half-up his nose, Dean's neck hot under his lips, and Dean's chest still damp with sweat against his forearms.


	2. epilogue

**Epilogue**

It seems only fitting to consummate their new, improved relationship with the one thing that was the genesis of it all: lying nude in a motel room, the bed sheets damp and squinched up underneath them, with Ariane in the armchair, watching it all with very, very wide brown eyes. 

She was quite game when they explained it to her; she'd laughed a little and said, 

"See, I always knew you two had it hard for each other." 

Sam is a little ashamed to admit that he never really believed her, and yet she was right on the mark; speaking of marks, Sam's bitten all along Dean's rib cage, leaving behind livid impressions of his teeth, overlaid by vivid colour from the suction of his mouth; now, he swings his leg over Dean's chest, lowers himself down a little, and opens his mouth wide to accept Dean's cock. Dean, in turn, slides his sumptuous lips up the shaft of Sam's cock, and even though it's been previously established that Sam's bigger and thicker than most of the men Dean's sucked off before, he still downs Sam's cock almost to the soft skin of Sam's shaven groin. (Dean teased and pleaded and cajoled until Sam gave in.) 

Dean, too, is beautifully smooth, and Sam kind of loves that a lot, because it means he won't get any hair stuck in his teeth; he begins to lave his tongue along Dean's silky hot flesh, savouring the tang of Dean's sweat, the slight bitter flavour of his precome as it seeps into his tongue, and he almost can't concentrate on what he's doing, because Dean is doing magical things with his own tongue. 

Dean swirls his tongue over Sam's slit, then traces the vein running along the underside of his cock, and Sam feels his whole body shudder as he slowly relaxes his throat by degrees until he can take almost all of Dean's cock; he drags his teeth in the lightest pressure over Dean's skin, and his brother makes an appreciative humming noise around Sam's cock, which sends a thrill of lightning all along Sam's nerves. 

Dean's precome keeps filling Sam's mouth, and it's a little saltier and more bitter than anything he's ever tasted before, but strangely, it doesn't disturb him because it's _Dean_ , and he flattens his tongue and presses it up against the crown of Dean's cock, wraps his fist around the base and slides his hand down until the head of Dean's cock peeks out of his foreskin, and then drops his tongue into the little vee, sucking and twisting his tongue around until Dean gasps around Sam's cock, hums again, creating vibrations that shiver along every cell of Sam's body. 

Sam, not quite as adept at sucking cock, copies Dean and hums a little Metallica, which is apparently a Pavlovian reaction for Dean, since it causes Dean's cock to jerk in Sam's mouth and leak more precome; Dean's entire body jolts under Sam's hands, and Sam focuses on making Dean crazy with the patterns of his tongue on Dean's cock. 

Dean, too, is succeeding at making Sam just as insane with his soft, satin lips around Sam's cock, and his tongue fluttering against Sam's extremely sensitive skin; Sam runs his tongue along Dean's cock, hollows out his cheeks and sucks _hard_ , and Dean's hips buck upwards involuntarily and Sam's forced to swallow down even more of his cock; then Dean lets out a wicked wheezing gasp around Sam's cock and streaks the inner walls of Sam's cheeks with his come. 

Sam's got experience with this, though; he drinks it easily, only a little bit seeping out from between his lips and drizzling down his chin; Dean powers on, wringing Sam's orgasm out of him even as he starts to let Dean's cock creep out of his mouth. 

Sam's whole body feels so hot he's cold, and sweat is collecting at the backs of his knees; Dean imbibes all of Sam's come just as easily, and then Sam's rolling off of Dean, falling flat on his back on the bed, spent and struggling for every next breath. 

Dean doesn't move either; the perspiration starts to dry on Sam's skin and itch, and Ariane, distantly through the crashing of the blood in his ears, much like the ocean as it breaks on the shore, actually _applauds_ for them. 

"Now, _that_ is a beautiful sight, boys," she says with a smile lacing her voice. 

"Just. Wish -- I -- could -- breathe," Sam stutters through the aftershocks of his orgasm. Dean reaches out and strokes his calloused palm down Sam's bare thigh, creating a ripple of pleasure along Sam's skin. 

"You're fuckin' something else," Dean says, throat fucked raw from Sam's cock, and _God_ , but that just turns Sam's crank like he can't believe. 

"You just wait till I recover," Sam says, feeling his chest heave as he struggles to get oxygen back into his orgasm-struck body. 

"I'm absolutely looking forward to it," Dean replies. He rubs Sam's thigh again, slowly drawing inward, toward the smooth skin of Sam's hairless balls. When he reaches them, having turned onto his side, Dean cups them in his palms as if judging their heaviness, then traces circles into Sam's skin until Sam's breath catches again, causing sparkles in his vision and a distinct lack of oxygen to his brain as it all floods south into his cock, tightening it up against Sam's belly. 

"Oh, Christ, keep doing that," Sam mumbles, kicking his hips upward until Dean takes pity on him and slides his hand up Sam's inner thigh, until he finally begins to make little lines of sensation with his fingertips on Sam's cock. 

"You ready to fuck me, little brother?" Dean says, and rolls even more until all the leagues of his gorgeous, bare golden skin is pressed against Sam's side. That's really more incentive than Sam needs; after months of sexual frustration and wishing he could just _touch_ Dean, he finally has the opportunity, and he's taking every advantage of it that he can. 

"I think I'm up to it," Sam rejoins, and his brother lets out a sharp little laugh. 

"Now who's five years old?" Dean asks, but Sam figures it's rhetorical; pushes himself into a sitting position and then crawls over Dean's naked body until he's behind him, fumbles around on the bed until he finds the bottle of lube, and then he slides Dean's legs apart and dips his fingers into the shadowed crevice of Dean's ass, applying lube to Dean's hole, and then his fingers are sucked easily into Dean's well-used body, and for once the expected flare of jealousy doesn't appear. 

He strokes the inside of Dean's body with his middle finger, crooking it a little until he stimulates the bundle of nerves deep inside Dean; his brother keens a little in his throat and pushes back onto Sam's fingers. 

Sam withdraws his fingers, aligns himself along Dean's back, loving the feel of Dean's shoulder blades against his chest, adoring the way the sharp bones rub along his nipples, making them tighten up and _want_ for friction, and then he's sliding up even more, cock nudging up against Dean's lubed hole, and Sam starts to press in, rewarded with a sharp splintered gasp from Dean. 

Dean pulls his outer leg up to his chest, wraps an arm around it, and Sam angles his hips, forces his cock through the rest of the resistance, feeling the way Dean's ass clenches and grips it and pulls it even deeper inside. Sam chokes on a sound of pleasure of his own and feels it streak like glorious heat through his cock. He raises his own leg and settles it down on top of Dean's, his arm sandwiched between them. 

Dean's inner walls are slick with lube and oh-so-tight against Sam's cock, velvety inside, and Sam bites down hard on his lip, then drops his head to Dean's shoulder, biting his skin, leaving behind more imprints of his teeth as he fucks the rest of the way into Dean, budging hard up against Dean's prostate. 

Dean moans and thrashes a little in Sam's arms, and Sam skims his palm up Dean's chest, tickles his nipples with his fingertips, and balances on one elbow as he begins the slow slip-slide of thrusts that this position allows; leisurely and smooth, Sam's cock only goes in and out in minute increments,, but it makes Dean writhe in his embrace, jamming his ass down and backwards, trying to cram as much of Sam's cock into his body as he can; Sam controls the pace, though, soft and slow and fluid strokes enough to drive Dean crazy. 

Dean's back is sweaty and sweltering against Sam's chest, and the inside of his body is equally as scorching hot, if not more; Sam cants his hips up a little and drags his cock along Dean's prostate again, and ghosts his hand downward until he's barely touching Dean's cock, then slowly closes his fingers around Dean's width. 

Dean's slowly turning to melted honey in Sam's grasp, body going liquid and relaxed, submerged in the slow burn of pleasure from Sam's cock, and his own is spilling copious precome over Sam's fingers. 

Sam rocks back and forth rhythmically, Dean's body clinging to his cock, and then Dean's hips stutter and slam upward, and he paints strings of come along Sam's hand and his own chest, and Sam keeps holding him through it, then skips his hand up onto Dean's chest, rubbing the creamy liquid into his skin. 

His own orgasm is sneakier than that, a slow but inevitable tightening of his balls as they draw up to his body, and then his cock is starting to twitch and throb, pulsing in time with every beat of his heart until it suddenly spills through his body like a firestorm, spitting sticky liquid into Dean's body. 

Sam's breath is ripped from his body with the sheer power of his orgasm, and when he starts to descend back to earth, Dean, too, is lax and boneless. Sam slowly slides out of Dean, his body protesting the retreat of Sam's cock, but soon enough they're not joined anymore, except for every place that their sweaty, tacky skin is touching. 

Dean twists in Sam's grip and clutches his chin, pulls him down until they're face-to-face and then meshes their lips together in a post-orgasmic kiss, the type that's filled with the glow and hazy pleasure of their bodies as they slowly start to come down. 

From behind them, Ariane says, 

"See, boys? All you needed was to vent some of that frustration." 

Sam smiles against the plump curves of Dean's lips. 

"We are bloody idiots," he tells Dean, and he can still feel the strong clench of Dean's fingers on his jaw. 

"Dude. I can't believe Bobby could see what we couldn't," Dean remarks, slipping his tongue back into Sam's mouth, running it along Sam's teeth and then tangling it with Sam's. 

Sam relaxes into the kiss for long moments, eyes open and a little cross-eyed as he takes in the peach stain on Dean's cheekbones and the freckles that speckle his skin. He finally draws away; 

"Always knew Bobby was too damn observant," he says. 

"At least fucking you is its own reward," Dean posits, then sucks Sam's lower lip into his mouth and chews on it a little until it's swollen and throbbing. Sam kind of loves the way it's almost painful, but still sweet enough to make his cock twitch a little, even in his exhausted state. 

"Was it worth the ride?" Sam asks Ariane, finally pulling away from Dean and flopping onto his back on the king-size bed. 

"God yes," she answers. "I feel like I should pay you for the best show I've ever seen." 

Sam can't move enough to look at her, so he waves his hand limply. 

"Maybe next time you should bring a camera," he says, and he can actually sense it pique Dean's interest. 

"Dude, that's not a bad idea," his brother says in a curious tone. "You got anything like that handy?" he directs at Ariane. 

"I have a digital camera in my car," she says, "but you two look like you need some sleep before round three." 

Sam finally musters up the energy to move a little, turning onto his stomach and facing her. 

"Come here," he says, and opens his arms. She walks hesitantly over, but climbs up onto the bed when he grabs her hands. He wraps her into his arms, then drags Dean over, and squeezes her between them. 

"Totally doesn't count as cuddling," Sam says sleepily, and tightens his hold around both of them. 

When he wakes up, he's going to fuck Dean senseless, fuck him until his brain comes to a full stop, and he's going to do it all on camera so they can watch themselves the next time they fall into bed together. 

The thought pleases him so much that all of his dreams are spicy and vivacious. 

\--//--

Dean's heavy in his lap, ass against Sam's lower stomach, and Sam's arms are tight around his torso, as he jams his cock upward into Dean, both of them staring open-mouthed at the television screen, where Dean's on his hands and knees, facing the camera, and Sam's standing with his knees slightly bent, cock moving in and out of Dean much like it is now. 

The angle's different, though, and Dean reaches back with one hand and grabs a handful of Sam's hair, and Sam blows out a breath against the sweaty nape of Dean's neck. Sam lifts Dean up from underneath his arms, and then shoves him back down onto his cock again, and when he looks away from the screen for a second, Dean's toes are actually curling. 

"Sometime I wanna be on top," Dean says breathlessly as Sam's cock drives into him again. Sam grins and bites Dean's shoulder. 

"But you love it so much on the bottom," Sam disputes calmly. Dean lets out a long growl and proves that statement as truth as Sam presses him even more firmly to his chest. 

"This is a great idea," he says, and Sam is forced to agree completely, as Dean loses it on camera and in Sam's arms at the same time. Sam comes deep inside Dean, and his brother actually _snarls_ , hand still clutching Sam's hair so tightly it's pulling on Sam's scalp. Sam barely manages to separate them and lie down, tugging Dean along with, before he's falling asleep. 

\--//--

Sam wakes up to Dean, sitting with his legs folded underneath him on the bed, a ruler held up to Sam's cock, and another ruler up to his own. Sam's eyes widen, and he can't help it, he shakes his head and explodes with laughter. 

"You're incorrigible!" But he's secretly quite pleased that he's got Dean beat by an entire half an inch. 

End.


End file.
